


What yet Lingers

by vivial



Series: Another Side, Another Story [3]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Book of Dust - Philip Pullman
Genre: Academia, Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Enemy Lovers, Fake Science, Gap Filler, Multi, Other, Plothole Fill, Politics, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rough Kissing, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spy Story, Worldbuilding, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 157,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivial/pseuds/vivial
Summary: From before Northern Lights to after The Secret Commonwealth, a take on how Lyra's world existed through the events of the trilogies.
Series: Another Side, Another Story [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654363
Comments: 108
Kudos: 53





	1. of somewhat fallen fortune

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill-the-gaps fic, meaning that I'm tackling things happening outside of the books. Needless to say, this spoils pretty much every book on this universe.  
> This fic will be divided into three acts: act one covers the events before Northern Lights happens; the second act covers the events of things happening during the His Dark Materials trilogy, such as Oakley Street and the Magisterium; the third act covers things happening before or during The Secret Commonwealth.  
> While this is a sequel to both IHW and ATW, you don't have to read them necessarily, as they are mostly masriel focused, but this does use certain premises I've establish before in those fics.  
> Title comes from Dragon Age: Inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 16/05/2020: I did my math wrong and wrote 1994, but actually it should be 1995.

**act one**   
_across the sunlight darkness is taking root anew_   
**john ashbery**

**_Spring, 1995._ **

Asriel put on his coat and walked out of Jordan, as fast as he could, without looking back. On his way out, he had a glimpse of Lyra talking to a short boy of easy features and Asriel smiled to himself when he noticed they were going in the direction of the crypts. She still had her frilly dress that didn’t suit her at all; he didn’t stay to watch her enter the place.

There was a car parked outside of the College; solid black, but not with an official aspect to it; it seemed more luxurious than that. Asriel was prepared to ignore it when the window was lowered and he saw the flicker of a daemon. He opened the door and sat beside the woman in there, Stelmaria carefully sitting at the space in front of his legs.

“Are you following me?” He asked, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Dorothea laughed heartily. She was richly dressed in silk, and her necklace was so big and heavy, she seemed to struggle with it. Asriel thought she might have been putting on a display; she was never one to fancy rubies and diamonds like that, yet there she was, her scent extravagant and excessive, dressed as if she was ready for a gala at four in the afternoon. Her daemon greeted Stelmaria and sat on her head.

“Of course. How’s Lyra?” She said, and the car began to move. Asriel raised the window again, as to prevent anyone to see them.

He allowed himself to relax for a moment, leaving his suitcase in the vacant space between him and the woman. The soft movement and the noise outside began to get on his nerves; he hadn’t realised how tired he was until now, but he tried not to show that. He glanced at her; she looked ravishing, which was unusual, but the lines of worry were there on her forehead; there was a light bruise on her neck, clearly not put there by pleasant means and she managed to look more tired than he did which was quite the feat on its own.

“She’s a liar.”

“And you’re surprised because…?” Dorothea mocked him and he shook his head. She tapped his hand delicately. “Come on, the girl is clearly trying to impress you. Give her a chance.”

“I saw her on the roofs when I arrived today. I asked her where she was used to playing, she lied to my face.”

“Aren’t the roofs dangerous for her? She’s so young!”

“They are. It’s why she lied.” Asriel said, but he laughed. “So, I told her about the crypts.”

“An improvement, _clearly_.” She mocked, and Asriel allowed himself to laugh. It felt strange, unnatural for a moment, but that feeling was gone very quickly.

“They’re safer than the roofs.” He sighed. He was sure Lyra would manage to damage something that he’ll have to pay next time he visited, but at least she wouldn’t fall from a building. “Why are you dressed like that? Where are you going?”

“I’m not going anywhere, I’m coming from a tea party. Nothing too relevant, to be honest.” She rubbed her eyes and forgot she had mascara on. Asriel laughed when she cursed quietly. “Nevermind that. Are you going back to London?”

“Maybe. There are some people I must talk to there.” He didn’t say what he was thinking though; how the hotels there were expensive and how he didn’t want to risk running into Marisa at the Royal Arctic Institute again. Dorothea knew both of those concerns, however, and said:

“How about you stay with me?” She looked at him, not with pity, but he didn’t like her gaze anyway. “There’s a guest room at my house, I wouldn’t mind the company, it’s been boring lately.”

“You’re as bad a liar as Lyra.”

“Not true, and you’re welcome to join me if you want to.” She slapped his shoulder in a friendly way. “A good bed, a hot meal and, if you’re not too nasty, I’ll let you take a Tokay bottle I have there.”

“I don’t need your charity, Eilhart.”

“It’s not charity! You can repay me by being useful.” Dorothea said; the car stopped and Asriel looked through the window; they were at the inn he paid the room for the day. _So she is following me_ , he thought, amused. Of course she was! “I’ll be leaving next week for Geneva, but I understand I am being… watched, so to speak. If you could take care of my home while I’m away, I’d be grateful. And you can stay there as long as you need.”

“Why are you being watched?”

She shook her head and put a finger over her lips. “Not here.” Her daemon whispered. “Not safe.”

“This proposal still feels like charity to me.” He snarled, but she smacked his arm, lightly.

“Don’t be proud Asriel. I admire that in you, but now it’s not the time for that.” Dorothea said and opened his door for him. She gestured for him to get out. “Now go, grab your things. We have a zeppelin to catch.”

*******

“How long will you be gone?” Asriel asked her, in her apartment in London; they were sitting at her terrace, as the afternoon slowly faded, turning the sky orange and purple.

“A month, or so. I hope I don’t have to prolong my stay, God knows I hate Geneva.” She took a sip from her drink; their daemons were chatting close by, quietly and about unrelated matters.

“Why would you even go there?”

“You know me, I love a challenge!” She mocked. “I’m supposed to learn what is happening there. There has been some weird movements on our reports, they’re doing something and we need to know what that is.”

“You’re following me as well.” He growled, irritated, but she dismissed that with a shake of her head.

“We learned that they have been keeping tabs on you, so we decided to watch you ourselves too. There’s always an agent nearby, making sure they won’t try anything stupid, like killing you, for instance.”

He drank from his glass. “I suppose I should say thank you, then.”

“You should, but we both know you won’t, so no need to fret about it.” She laughed. “Our biggest concern for the moment is what is happening in Geneva. It’s something big, Asriel, I am concerned.”

“Don’t you have agents there for that sort of thing?” He said, but she shook her head. “Why go yourself?”

“I want to stay busy, you know me.” She said. “I think Nugent just wants to get rid of me, well, can’t blame him for that.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! Why does everyone always assume I did something?”

“You’re always doing something, that’s the truth.”

She sighed. “Yes, fine. We disagreed about Lyra’s safety. He doesn’t think she is important, but I know she is, yet he won’t listen. So, I asked to be sent to Geneva; I was joking of course, but then he decided that I should indeed go. I'm assuming he thinks that sending me away will make me forget about Lyra.”

There was a moment of silence, Dorothea finished her glass and set it at the table with a soft noise. She had a frown that made Asriel grin, for a moment; if she was as tired as she looked, he _really_ didn’t envy her position.

“Have you seen _her_ recently?”

“No. She did invite me for two lunches, but I had to skip those because I was busy. If she invites me a third time, I’ll have to attend somehow or else she’ll think I’m avoiding her.”

“Are you? Avoiding her, I mean?”

“No.”

“You don’t sound so sure of yourself, Eilhart.” Asriel mocked. “Did she finally get under your skin?”

“No, not yet. But since she found out that I helped you with Lyra during the Flood, our relationship has been… sore.” Dorothea sighed. “It’s been weird. Our conversations feel like sparring, and she’s been making friends in high places amongst the Church people. People I don’t like and who don’t like me in return.”

“I don’t think she knows much about your involvement with Oakley Street, otherwise you would have already been drowned somewhere.”

“I hate that you’re right.” She looked at him, patient, wise; she felt like an entirely different person. “I feel like you know this, but I also feel I should say it again. Stay away from that woman, Asriel.”

“No need to tell me twice, Eilhart.” He smiled, smug and daring, just to spite her and it worked beautifully. She slapped her hand on her thigh.

“I know you slept with her a couple of years ago!”

“So what?”

“That was unwise.”

“You weren’t even in the country when that happened.” He noticed as she tried to contain her smile. “How did you find out?”

“I have my ways.”

“She _told_ you, she must have.” He hissed, impatient, but she remained impassive.

“You’re missing the point, Asriel. What I’m saying is that you should avoid her. Sleeping with her… that was careless. The things she could accuse you of are endless!”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, she would. The only thing in her way to Lyra is you and scholastic sanctuary, and without you, persuading the master would be much easier, you _know_ that.”

“I can handle Marisa, Eilhart. Do not worry about it.”

“So you keep saying, but I believe you less and less each time you reassure me.”

“She does have a point, Asriel.” Stelmaria said; she brushed her head against his knee to reassure his thoughts. “You are vulnerable to Marisa’s charms.” She turned to Dorothea, then, who had a winning smile. “But then again, that is _our_ affair, not yours.”

“You’ve made it my affair a long time ago, when you involved me in this mess.”

They stood in silence for a while, taking in on each other's pettiness.

“Are you going to be safe in Geneva?” Asriel asked; he saw her efforts not to scoff of disdain. That was a silly question, even he acknowledged it, although only to himself.

“As safe as I can be in a place surrounded by the Magisterium. To be honest, I think I might be safer there than I am here.”

“True. They can’t really strike down an English marchioness in broad daylight. I imagine you told our ambassador there that you’re on a public visit?”

“Not really. Common knowledge is that I am there to attend a history symposium, which is true, but I’m trying to keep my visit discreet. I’m sure you remember my godfather is also there.” She made a funny face; he knew the man very vaguely and only by name, since his reputation was dull and irrelevant to almost everyone including the Magisterium. “I’ll say hello and be a good girl and hope he doesn’t ask many questions.”

“Entitled scholars and stale drinks.” Astraeus mocked.

“Still, a better cover story than just blatantly showing up there.” Asriel said and sighed; she looked at him, pleasant and amused, but he could see the frown between her eyebrows. “Tell me the truth. Why are you going to Geneva?”

Dorothea sighed, and rubbed her temples before finishing her drink. He felt like she was gathering up her courage to speak, which might as well have been true given she took a while to say anything even after finishing her drink. The fire nearby crackled; Asriel felt almost at peace and that alone left him restless.

"We've been compromised.” She whispered, her voice a little rough.

“How so?”

“Rumours has it the CCD built a file with the name of several agents, detailing a lot of our helpful chores to Oakley Street.”

“You're worried. That's new."

“I am. I worry for the others, though; my title will give the CCD pause before acting, and I have enough dirt on their friends that I'm safe, for a while. The other agents, though, are not as lucky. They are in danger.” She sighed. “Right now, I need help or they will be hunted down by them, one by one.”

“But Geneva?” He asked; her plan was so senseless he could not understand it at all. “Why would you even go there for help?”

“I intend to beg, Asriel. A heist is virtually impossible. The only people who can help me right now are the people I actively fight against.”

He laughed, but her bitterness was solid and emanated from her as her daemon quietly whispered to Stelmaria. There had never been two more different people than them both, yet for every conflict of theirs, their daemons seemed to cope with each other nicely, settling their disputes before they even started.

“That is beneath you.”

“It is, but I have no choice.”

“There is always a choice.”

“You must know life isn’t that simple.” Dorothea snapped and Asriel saw the anger and the anguish in her eyes. “I won’t leave England; the agency needs me here and you forget that if something happens to you, I am the best next thing to a guardian to your daughter. I have to clear our names, all of us.”

She stood up and walked to a shelf, carefully picking a heavy book that she opened with a delicate gesture; inside, there was a small journal with a green cover. She gave it to Asriel.

“This is why I need you to stay here, in the flat, while I’m away.” She explained. “It’s a report, a big report, on big names of the Magisterium. A blackmail diary, if you will; the information here is valuable, dangerous and encrypted.” She added when he opened the book but all he saw was gibberish. “One of our archives was raided two weeks ago, we think this was the target, so I’m keeping it safe until we move it to a new location.”

“I didn’t see anything on the newspapers about a raid.”

“That’s because no one reported it, of course. They covered it up, but here we are. I can’t leave this thing unguarded, yet I am the safest bet for it at the moment. All I ask is that you make sure it remains safe until I come back.” Dorothea rubbed her eyes. “If anyone tries to move it, even if it is Oakley Street, you tell them to fuck off and contact me immediately.”

He watched as she carefully took the journal back and put it inside its book gap, and once again set it on the shelf.

They stood in silence again, the fireplace making a soft noise, as Asriel watched her with a lazy interest. She was always up to something, he didn’t know a time in which she wasn’t involved in high politics; she never offered him money or any help, except for that request that sounded more like an excuse to help him than an actual request for help. Yet Asriel was fully aware that all he had to do was ask her and she would flip England upside down to help him; he never asked because he was proud. Dorothea, however, would often sneak in some favours, as that time when he was having a particularly difficult time having his research approved by a Swedish university and the next day - for some magical reason - he got the approval stamp. He knew she was behind it, probably spying on him through some Scholar in her favours, but she never mentioned it and he never asked and they both pretended that had never happened like they usually did.

It was odd to think how they often talked about Marisa and their weird relationship as if nothing bad had ever happened, but it _had_ happened and there he was now, poor, at the verge of begging for money, throwing himself at expeditions in search of nothing concrete. Even that previous encounter of theirs wounded his pride more than asking Eilhart for money ever would, because Marisa was simply a fresh wound he kept on opening; he tried not to dwell on it. He felt weak and foolish on that night, and ignored her ardently for the next years, because he knew his resolve would falter again if they met once more.

“You’re staring, Eilhart.” He mumbled and she laughed, although she sounded very sad for some reason. _She always sounds sad,_ Stelmaria thought, carefully lying down at her spot in the carpet, purring quietly as Astraeus flew around her, chirping a soft melody.

“I’m trying to guess what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking you’re a depressing woman.” He mocked; she didn’t seem offended though. He knew her since she was very young, and back then he would mock her just to hear her telling him to fuck off, but nowadays she was much more agreeable and harder to offend. She wanted to look like she was calmer now, when in fact she was just exhausted.

“I hate that you’re right, Asriel.” She said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should stop your explorations of the North.”

Asriel sighed. He was wondering when she would suggest him to let go of his studies. Whenever they encountered each other, she would bring it up, almost desperately.

“Why?” He said, in a severe tone that made her sigh herself.

“Because you have a child, a life to attend to… Don’t look at me like that, you know I am right.”

“I have a child I cannot raise. Even if I wanted to stay in London, which I don’t by the way, my presence in her life would still be scarce.” He hissed; it was as if they were stuck in an eternal battle of willpower, that he would win eventually, by exhausting her as he always did.

“It doesn’t have to be that way. You can stop pulling away from her, for starters.”

“She’s an uninteresting brat! A liar!”

“So was Marisa and that has never stopped you before.” Dorothea spat, a bit too violently; he sensed her anxiety through her words and the way she fidgeted the ring on her finger. Astraeus flew back to her shoulder and whispered something, to which she shook her head in disapproval. “That girl deserves better and you should be here, in London, helping us, not crusading across the North as if your life didn’t matter to anyone.”

“The work I do is important.”

“It’s pure speculation and it bears no practical use in our current situation! You used to mock Marisa for being theoretical, whatever has happened to you, Asriel?”

He looked away, not ashamed, but quite angry. Angry that this spiteful woman could spit on him such harsh truths to which he found no answers for; angry that she was right, and so was Stelmaria, whenever the avoidance conversation started.

Asriel felt suddenly restless.

“You said so yourself, multiple times I believe, that things have changed.” He had a smirk on his lips, a dark amusement in his eyes and she flinched a bit underneath it, as expected. “For better or for worse.”

“Don’t you dare use my own quote against me, Asriel.”

And with that, the tension in the room vanished and it was as if they had never even argued to begin with. However, they could both sense the restlessness in each other, for different reasons; Dorothea’s came from her anxiety about the future while Asriel’s was something that belonged to his very nature, and not unlike a dormant volcano, was slowly stirring, waiting to melt down.

She left by Saturday, but not before nagging Asriel about taking care of the flat. He got tired of listening to her _“Lock all the doors before going to bed, I mean it!”_ and _“Keep a gun beside the bed for safety!”_ and told her to bugger off, but he did make sure her security measures were followed.

Her flat was comfortable in a way that he missed, at least in an entropical way; he liked the ragged ways of being an explorer and living off tents and caves and wild fires, but nothing could compare to a good bed and good, within reach wine.

His first week alone - or at least in the company of Thorold, as he joined Asriel later - Asriel had spent drinking Eilhart’s entire shelf of wine, and trying to read her green journal. He couldn’t crack her code, that was one of the few things she excelled at. Lady Eilhart spoke at least six different languages, so her codes were very intricate and specific and wild in a way that drove insane even the most detail-oriented agent in Oakley Street. He knew that one code in particular was excessively difficult and he assumed there were only a few people who could read it, even if they had a key to it.

Before going to bed, though, he made sure that the book was safe at its hidden spot and checked the locks of the windows and main door. The woman had many flaws, but she wasn’t known for being paranoid; if she thought she was being followed, it might as well have been true, so being extra careful couldn’t harm anyone.


	2. know thy enemy

_there's no choice that doesn't mean a loss_   
**jeanette winterson**

Dorothea’s first week in Geneva was anything but pleasant. The days were damp and rainy and she spent most of them chatting to her contacts, trying to assimilate the politics of the city, all while feeling the harsh gaze of the CCD and the Magisterium coming from… well, _everywhere._

Her nights were cold and even more damp, and quite restless, as she couldn’t force herself to sleep at her discreet hotel because she felt as if the shadows moved. _Sleep_ , Astraeus had told her during the first three nights, _There is nothing here._ She had almost believed him by the fourth night, but the morning after, she told him, again and again, that she had closed the window they had found open.

“We need to settle this fast, Astraeus.” She told him, after dressing up and checking out of the hotel and searching for another one, this time a fancy and crowded one. “We are not safe.”

She couldn’t think of a single day in her life in which she had been safe; it was a life of danger and misery and constant disappointment for everyone, but mostly for herself. Her father had been a conservative, mixed up with the high politics and with an incessant praise for the Consistorial Court; he wanted to make a nun out of her, even when she was the sole heir of his estate, his wealth and his title. At the time, Dorothea was left out of the loop most of the time, but as she grew older, she realised that had her uncle not intervened, the entire family’s wealth and legacy would have been gifted to the Magisterium because her father would rather make them rich than make her his sole heir.

Her uncle was an educated man and fiercely against the traditional views of the Magisterium; however, he couldn’t see anything special about her either, but he cared about her all the same. She was grateful for that, especially after her father had died and she was alone, in the world, and with the title came the responsibilities and burdens.

Asriel had seen something in her though; if not for him, she would have ended up as a housewife in the middle of the Austral Empire: dumb, docile and with four kids to a husband she did not love and whom likely did not love her in return. Modern times had rendered such dutiful marriages dull and not as mandatory, but women still were stuck in some of these traditions. Her family was big enough that it wouldn’t matter if she had no children of her own, the title and money would simply go to an heir of her choice, and they were influential enough that she could afford to be a quirky person in social matters.

At that moment, for example, she was preparing to enter a big, old building close to the Cathedral of St. Peter, seeking a very dull conversation with her very dull godfather.

His name was Auguste Binaud, and although he had barely reached his 55th birthday, he looked at least ten years older than he was supposed to be. He was by no means evil, or cruel, quite the contrary, in fact; he was an amicable man, gentle and with a light-hearted sense of humour. Auguste Binaud was pious to the core, which was a suitable trait, for the secretary general of _La Maison Juste._

“My, you haven't changed at all, my dear.” He said, kissing her cheeks gently and showing her a chair in his well-lit office. His daemon was a beautiful tropical bird, with vibrant colours, but very quiet. All she did was nod at Astraeus, who nodded back. “How long has it been since your last visit, ten, twelve years?”

“Ten years, yes. I was very young, and you're very kind, but I'm sure I look much different than before.” She smiled in a docile, yet very rehearsed way. He wouldn't notice, but she felt every muscle in her body protesting that act of pretense. “I hope you've been in good health.”

“Yes, yes. I had a tough cold last August, but all's been fine since then. Is your uncle well?” Binaud poured her a glass of a deep dark red wine and fetched himself a glass of clear white wine before sitting across her, at his desk. “He hasn't been here in a while, but your cousin - the eldest one, Frederick, yes - he came for a visit last semester. He was to begin his priesthood recently, if I remember correctly.”

Dorothea nodded, courteously, while trying not to laugh. Frederick was her uncle's heir and a troublemaker who had recently gotten some girl pregnant, from the Cambridge area where he went to college. Her uncle was about to marry them off when Freddie decided to become a pious man, and to become a priest, no less.

“Yes, so I've heard. It was a... surprise.”

Binaud tapped her hand gently before continuing in his soft voice.

“It's never late to see the Truth, my dear. I'm sure you'll come around eventually, you're still very young.” His friendly manner made it all seem hilarious, but Dorothea knew he meant every word in a very indoctrinated way. “You were also always the black sheep of the family.”

 _Freddie is the black sheep_ , she thought with amusement, _he is the one who decided to join the Magisterium_. She would never say that out loud, though, ever.

“I try not to be boring, I suppose.” It was all she said and he laughed, heartily.

“Fair enough. What brings you to Geneva?”

She explained to him, calmly, that she was there to attend the history symposium. It was too risky to ask him about the file or anything related to the CCD. Despite his friendly disposition, Auguste Binaud was head of an institution that was mildly important to Magisterium politics; Dorothea considered them more dangerous than the CCD however, because they striked with dogma and philosophy and ideas, and these were powerful weapons, difficult to disarm. The CCD lacked finesse; they were relevant because they relied on brute force, but finesse was something _La Maison Juste_ had aplenty.

“We would love to have you for dinner tonight, if you don't have other plans.” He mentioned and she saw herself nodding, despite having little desire to go to dinner anywhere. She didn’t dislike him and his family, but Geneva had a terrible impact on her nerves making everything unappealing. “Nothing formal, it would be just me and Marcy, and Evelyn - you remember her, right? It will be lovely, you can tell us all about what's been happening in England.”

She regretted the whole thing before it even started. So, she left his office and went back to her hotel to get clean and change into a proper attire. They were pious, traditional, so she found the most boring dress she had and tried to look as anti-modern as she could.

“You look like an old lady.” Astraeus mocked her and she shushed him, while looking at her mirror. He was right, though, and she felt uncomfortable; that was the motivation she required to set her hair in nice curls and make her make up a bit more colourful, just so she would look like herself enough.

She was welcomed by Auguste's wife, Marcy, a cheerful woman that could never stop talking and they were already at the living room, sitting by the fire with a few cocktails. As one of the staff of the house - not very modest, but also not too extravagant - took her coat away, she observed the room from a place where she wasn't being seen yet.

Auguste was sitting across two men, one of them sitting beside his teenage daughter, who quietly watched her dog daemon pretend to be asleep on the carpet. The man, not older than thirty, tried to make small talk with her but failed inherently, as she was shy and unresponsive. He was tall and quite handsome in a traditional way, and confident in his sitting posture. Dorothea immediately disregarded him, as she watched the second man talking to her godfather in French.

His hair had already some grey streaks despite him looking younger than she was, and he was slim, athletic, with a square jaw and an air of confidence as well as arrogance. He held himself with an elegant modesty, that was as false as his lack of interest when Dorothea walked in. He looked up, his eyes darted up and down, and he immediately turned back to Binaud, who acknowledged her with a great smile and a kiss on her cheek.

“Him.” Astraeus whispered in her ear. She watched the man get up, and straighten himself before her. She knew what her daemon meant; unlike the other man on the couch, this one had a Magisterium pin on his suit, golden and delicate and a horrible statement that this man was a career man. She was in need of a career man, someone to buy or blackmail in exchange for help and he seemed to be the perfect target. It was too easy, there had to be a catch somewhere.

“Dottie, my dear, let me introduce you.” Binaud said and she gritted her teeth when he used her childhood nickname. He pointed at the man on the couch, who promptly stood up and offered her his hand. His lemur daemon nodded at Astraeus too, polite but eager. Binaud introduced the man as Gareth Chevalier, one of his assistants.

The other man looked at her again and he tried to pretend she was boring, or at least, tried to conceal the fact he knew who she was despite never having met her. She made the decision to play along with his charade for the moment.

“This is another one of my assistants, Marcel Delamare. We were just discussing some business, quite the gossip, let me tell you.”

Marcel shook her hand with confidence. Astraeus peeked shyly at his snow owl daemon; it was easy to let men feel like they were in control, all she had to do was bat her eyes and let Astraeus pretend to be shy and modest.

She expected nothing different from Marcel Delamare. Except that time it didn't work.

***

“Dottie is a scholar, Marcel.” Binaud said during dinner; she ended up sitting across Marcel at the table, and they were forced to look at each other more than she would have liked. “She specialised in elemental theology.”

“Do tell.” Marcel said, in a patronising tone that eluded everyone except for Eilhart, and under his gaze she hesitated for a second.

She had already given up on trying to blackmail him, since something about him had rubbed her off the wrong way. The way he moved, his speech and his gaze, all left her uncomfortable, uneasy; she thought that Chevalier would be a safer bet since he seemed less harmful, and less clever too; plus his interest had shifted from talking to poor Evelyn to Dorothea, to the point of almost openly flirting with her.

She didn't flirt back, despite thinking she should have. Astraeus chastised her for that, because it would be easier to seduce the fool than discuss business, but Marcel had disrupted her line of thought somehow. She had only felt that disturbed in the presence of Asriel or Marisa, but these were extraordinary people that simply overpowered anyone they met; a third occurrence was too much. She hadn't prepared for that.

“It's a vast area of study, very new and fresh. St. Sophia's college is second only to Jordan in that field of study.” It was all she could say before clutching at her glass of wine and taking a long sip.

The way he looked at her made it clear he knew her and not knowing why or how was driving her mad.

“I thought St. Sophia's was focused on natural studies.” Marcel spoke and she almost heard a tone of disdain in his voice, but it was well concealed. “Elemental theology seems a bit off their branch.”

“Well, with the current situation, it seems right that everyone is studying it.” She argued, and Binaud's daemon got tense; Astraeus whispered to her she should change the subject. “Plus the college still excels at its traditional disciplines, of course.”

“I suppose Jordan is as good as any place to find a good husband.” Binaud's wife mentioned and they all laughed heartily at that terrible comment, but Dorothea's smile faltered for a second. “You still haven't met anyone, though, have you?”

She took another sip from her glass of wine and settled it down, carefully and slowly before replying. She tried to look away but Marcel kept staring at her and that made her uncomfortable in many ways. He watched, expectantly, with a glimpse of amusement in his eyes.

“No, I haven't. Nor do I belong to a college to seek a husband, Marcy, it's a busy way of life.”

“That's good news!” Chevalier said, jokingly. Dorothea had to use all of her willpower not to roll her eyes at him and she reconsidered, for a second, using him as a resource to get the file she needed. “You're far too beautiful to be wasted on those scholars.”

She simply smiled and nodded at that, with the right amount of grace applied to her movements, all the while watching Marcel carefully, as to not show she was directly paying attention to him. They spoke a little more about her scholar life, before the conversation turned to the dreadful matter of Asriel’s indiscretions. She didn’t expect it.

“So, is it true?” Marcy asked, and Dorothea raised her head, glancing at the woman with a lovely smile on her face. “We've heard your friend Asriel has been in a lot of trouble.”

“Don't be a gossip, Marcy!” Binaud said, but he looked at Dorothea with eager eyes. Even Evelyn, shy and mindless, stopped eating and looked up with curiosity to Dorothea, who was beside her at the table. Eilhart moved uncomfortably, but not in a way that it was visible to them. Astraeus chirped softly on her shoulder, to encourage her.

“It's not a gossip, I was just wondering what happened. He was always trouble, that man.” Marcy said, shaking her hand in a dismissive gesture. “And you were always following him around, caused all sorts of rumors. They say he is a heretic.”

“Oh, nonsense. He’s just… loud and colourful.” Dorothea said, drinking her wine before she could go on and actually end up calling Asriel a proper heretic.

“Is it true then?” Binaud asked and Dorothea nodded. “A married woman? I'm surprised.”

“It was a complicated relationship, but it was a long time ago. It doesn't matter now.” She lied, with a gentle grin; Marcel's eyes met hers and she saw he seemed less amused by everything.

“A woman ruins her marriage like that, it means she probably wasn't worth keeping anyway.” Chevalier said.

“Well, there was nothing to keep. Her husband was killed.” Eilhart added, with a morbid grin that quickly vanished.

Astraeus told Dorothea to watch something. Marcel's daemon was perched on his chair, close to his head, and while the remark from Chevalier did not nothing to alter his pleasant expression, the daemon moved a bit, restless. It made no sense at the moment, other than to interpret he didn't like his co-worker at all, but years later, she still recollected that moment with an intense vivacity.

“We saw your photogram on the newspaper recently.” Marcy added, while serving herself more food, but she kept her eyes on Dorothea. Eilhart’s mother died when she was very young, so she never endured much of a mother’s disdain, but she assumed it was something like what Marcy was doing to her right now. “You’re still friends with Mrs. Coulter.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“She has a reputation.” That was Marcy’s way of calling her a whore. Dorothea tried hard not to snort at that; instead she straightened herself in that chair and looked at the older woman with so much distaste that she felt a bitter taste in her own mouth.

“Why, because of the affair?” She raised an eyebrow. “I know of at least three men who are currently in an affair, I’m sure you have some friends with spicy secrets!”

“I do not! Auguste!” Marcy said, looking at her husband, who instead of supporting her was laughing at her.

“Oh, you do! We all do. Remember uncle Pierre?” Dorothea was now fired up in her own joke, and gestured excited at Auguste who nodded. “He was terrible! He was always involved with married women! He even had a very widely known affair with Madame De-- Oh.”

She stopped mid-sentence as a cold shiver went down her spine. She looked quickly at Marcel, but he hardly seemed upset; he had his handkerchief over his mouth to disguise his grin; he stared back at her and Dorothea got distracted for two seconds, before turning back to Marcy. “It doesn’t matter. Marisa got unlucky, she got caught. If anything, Edward was the stupid one, he would still be alive today if he hadn’t decided to be violent.”

“He was defending his wife’s honour, wasn’t he?” Chevalier added, but Dorothea scoffed.

“He was defending what he thought was a violation of his property. In my opinion, he had it coming.”

“Dorothea!” Marcy exclaimed. “You can’t say such things! The poor man is not here to defend himself!”

“Well, neither is Mrs. Coulter, dear.” Auguste added and his wife slapped his arm, indignant. They fell silent for a while, eating and drinking in an awkward environment.

“I heard they had a baby.” Evelyn quietly said, and Dorothea nodded, gently.

“They did, a baby girl. Lyra.”

“Even Asriel has a baby, but not you.” Marcy said, in a friendly way that actually was very accusatory.

“Perhaps I don't want a baby.”

“And why on Earth--” She started again, but Binaud seemed to know where she was going and interrupted her with another joke.

“I am just glad you weren't the one Asriel got pregnant.”

Dorothea snorted.

“And why would that even be a possibility?”

“Well, you were always following him around, and he has a reputation too.” Binaud began but this time Dorothea interrupted him with a gesture.

“No, never. Asriel would never even look at me that way, we're like family.” She glanced quickly at Marcel, but he wasn't looking at her anymore. “I am offended you would even consider that, Auguste.”

Binaud hurried to apologise and they quickly changed subjects again, instead discussing the symposium she was meant to attend. The rest of the evening was as boring as predicted and Dorothea wanted more than anything to leave, but she also wanted Astraeus to talk to Marcel's daemon; it was difficult though, as everyone at the table would notice.

They kept to themselves instead, and when she decided to leave, two hours later, Binaud accompanied her to the door.

“Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to your hotel?”

“I'm fine. I'd like to take a walk, take in the sights.” She told him.

“It's dark, Dottie. It can be dangerous, let me at least call you a cab.”

“There’s no need--” She began, but she was interrupted.

“If it puts your mind at ease, Binaud, I can walk her home. It's on my way, anyway.” Marcel showed up at Binaud's side, already with his coat on. His eyes merely darted over her before looking back at Binaud. “If Lady Eilhart doesn’t mind my company, of course.”

She took a minute to reply as she was unsettled by the way he looked at her.

“I don't. Auguste, thank you again for the invitation, it was a lovely dinner”

“I am sorry, for the things Marcy said to you.” Auguste started but Eilhart interrupted him with a hand gesture.

“It’s all fine. I know she still resents me about what happened with Julian.” She shifted her stance as Auguste’s eyes turned dark and sad. “Thank you for your hospitality, Auguste.” She hugged him delicately, then looked at Marcel. “Shall we go, Monsieur Delamare?”

He shook Binaud's hand and they left. They walked in silence until they reached the second block. Astraeus then, flying low above her head, tried to chat with the owl who simply acknowledged him but said nothing. Silence was making her uncomfortable, so Dorothea did what she knew best: she allowed her smart mouth to get the best of her.

“Did you outrun Chevalier to the door?”

“What makes you say that?” He said, after a short pause; his voice had a hint of laughter.

“I assumed he would want to walk me home more than anyone, especially you.”

“He lives in the opposite direction of your hotel, I just offered a clever solution.”

“You did outrun him, then.”

Another pause. They looked at the street before crossing, but it was late and no one was coming.

“Yes.” He glanced at her, a smile on his face, as if he knew a secret he wanted to share with no one but her. “I assume I did you a favour. You don't seem to like him very much.”

“He's too eager and too traditional. I've dealt with men like that before.”

“What kind of man?”

“The kind of men who sees a bachelorette Marchioness and sees an opportunity for an easy ascent on society.” She laughed.

“He’s not that clever.” Marcel added. “Does that apply to me as well?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Dorothea mentally chastised herself for replying too fast. “But you definitely want something from me.”

“I barely know you, my lady.”

“You know me enough, Delamare.”

They arrived at the entrance of the hotel, beautifully lit with golden lamps that cast a smooth flow of warm light on the sidewalk. She stopped and turned to face him. He put his hands on his pocket and watched her, carefully, _waiting_.

“You know who I am, so I feel like I am at a disadvantage here.”

“I was just being polite in walking you here.” He said, polite and calm, but she saw how amused he looked. “I understand you don't know Geneva very well.”

“It's not exactly my favourite place on the globe.”

“I wonder why.” His mockery should’ve made her feel better, but it didn’t.

“I'm sure you can guess it.”

He took a step closer but didn't say anything.

“I'll be honest with you, I don't like you very much.” She whispered, and unsurprisingly, he smiled.

“I assumed that much.”

“So drop the flirting act. It won't work, I'm not that gullible.” She said, but he didn’t move at all. She hated how he looked at her as if he could read her thoughts. “I'm interested in what you want from me, though. Would you like to come in?”

Astraeus sat on her shoulder and whispered: _Are you mad?_ _He works for the Magisterium!_ She pretended not to hear him. Marcel offered her a grin.

“That would be… _improper_.”

“Only if we do improper things, which we won't.” She said, and thought to herself: _Well, I hope not._ “What I have to say shouldn't be said out here, though.”

He waited before saying anything, his daemon whispering something to him. Dorothea waited, patient, though she was feeling quite restless. She felt like she was being measured, by a man who seemed to hold an advantage over her head; Eilhart held her breath, hoping she hadn’t misjudged him too badly. If she had, she would be in deep trouble very soon.

“Very well.” He said; she breathed out so relieved she didn’t bother concealing it. It was worth it to allow herself a moment of weakness.


	3. guilty pleasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mildly smut for Masriel. I felt like I should warn you. lol  
> I hope they're not too out of character, because this was tough to write.

_i'll be your friend in the daylight again_  
there we will be, like an old enemy  
**the lumineers**

Marisa knocked on the door, once, twice; she waited patiently for it to be open and she feigned surprise as easily as she could breath. He looked her up and down, confused at first, then annoyed.

“I didn’t know Dorothea had company today.” She said, bitterly, even though she retained the sweetness in her voice.

She knew, of course. She knew the moment Lady Eilhart had left England and she spent the past days pondering how to approach the situation. Marisa knew she couldn’t just break into the lady’s flat, so she stood in doubt about how to reach the blackmail diary, up until she learned Asriel was alone at the flat. Then suddenly she had an idea, but it took her time to build the courage.

“She’s not here.” He practically growled, but Marisa simply shifted her stance and grinned.

“No need to be rude. I was simply dropping by.” She tilted her head as he narrowed his eyes; she saw a glimpse of Stelmaria behind him, but Marisa quickly looked away. Stelmaria had an odd gift to intimidate her, somehow. “Where did she go?”

“Geneva.”

“Oh, really? Why?”

“That’s none of your business.” He kept the door half-closed, as if he was afraid of her trying to get inside. It amused her.

“Come on, now, I’m just being friendly.”

They stared at each other in silence for a while. She remembered a time when his glance never felt heavy upon her, but that was a long time ago, and suddenly she felt the pressure of his judgement. If she didn’t know him any better, she would say he was angry she was there.

“Are you not gonna invite me in?” She asked, and he was so indignant he scoffed, trying to conceal his laughter.

“You have some nerve, Marisa, you really do.” Then he took a step aside and gestured for her to come in.

Marisa sensed she was holding her breath, so she slowly let the air go. Unlike Dorothea, Asriel had closed all the curtains, even though it was the middle of the afternoon and almost a beautiful day outside. He looked at her with the sort of resentment she expected, but it didn’t hurt her any less just because she knew it was coming.

“She’s been skipping my dinners.” Marisa casually mentioned, taking a look at a bunch of papers on the desk; she assumed Asriel was reading those, as the subject was far too philosophical for Dorothea’s taste. She carefully checked which page he was on, and suppressed a smirk when she saw that he was way behind her on it.

“She is a busy woman. So are you, from what I heard.” He had set back on his armchair, an ankle on his knee, watching, a sardonic spark on his eyes.

“And what _exactly_ have you heard?” She turned to face, in that gloomy living room. Stelmaria’s tail moved, from one place to the other, even though Asriel was as still as a statue.

“Ah, your little project seems to be working out just fine.” He scoffed. “What is it called, again? Oh right, General Oblation Board. What a strange choice, why this, I wonder.”

She offered him a grin that felt more like she was baring her teeth, like a wild animal. The monkey reached for her ankle, uneasy; she wanted to step away from him, but not in front of Asriel. Never in front of Asriel, or anyone else for the matter.

“I can’t tell you, you know that. The project still isn’t exactly functional.”

“I have absolutely no interest in stealing your shenanigans with the Church, Marisa. They bore me, in fact.” He said in a monotonous tone, his face barely moving as he spoke.

Marisa snorted, dropping her purse on the desk.

“Those words would’ve worked ten years ago, Asriel, but now it’s just a cheap trick that annoy me.”

He got up and walked slowly up to her; for a moment, she held her breath, wondering if he meant to strike her down or to kiss her. He got close enough that he could’ve done both, Marisa even narrowed her eyes as she felt his warm breath against her face; she even parted her lips, waiting, too eagerly she was chastising herself already for things that hadn’t even happened yet. Asriel, however, chose to ignore her.

“You assume I care enough about you that I have even the slightest interest in annoying you.” He took the papers from the desk next to her, slowly patted her nose with them, before turning his back on her. “Don’t flatter yourself, Marisa.”

She grabbed his arm; the only reason she was able to pull him close was because she caught him off guard.

“You would rather bash your head against a wall a thousand times, than admit all of this affects you.” Marisa spat. He bit his lower lip in fury, and grabbed both her wrists, and pushed her against the wall, as Stelmaria pinned the monkey to the ground. She had all the delicate ways Asriel lacked immensely; Marisa felt the brute wall against her back and it hurt.

“Why are you here?” He hissed, holding her chin so she would look him in the eyes.

“Why are _you_ here?” She hissed back; they stood in silence for a second, before Asriel leaned in and kissed her, voraciously.

She lost track of everything else, but his hands, on her back, on her breasts, clutching at her hair, breathless when they parted for a second, only to kiss her again, harder, harsher, more brutal each time. There was a hunger in him she was familiar with, now permeated with a loathing taste in his mouth, in every inch of his skin against hers. Marisa felt like he touched her as if his life depended on it, as well as if she was about to extinguish his existence with her warmth.

He wouldn't move past that, and she began to feel frustrated, which made her take the lead. She had spent enough time in that flat to know where to go, so she guided into the hallway, and Asriel grabbed her by the waist and kissed her again. They stumbled until she found a door; the monkey jumped ahead to open as Asriel pressed her against the wall.

Marisa moved towards the bedroom, but Asriel pulled away.

“No.” He mumbled.

“Why?” Marisa grabbed him by the collar and planted a kiss on his neck that made him let out a sigh.

“That's Eilhart's bedroom.”

Marisa glanced over the bedroom, then shrugged.

“So, what about it?”

“Are you trying to get us killed?”

“Oh, come on. Is this really where you're gonna draw the line, Asriel?” Marisa scoffed, and she was even more amused with the fact he was very intent on not going in that bedroom. “You can't be serious.”

“She's a very angry woman.” He mocked, as that was clearly not the reason he wouldn't do it.

“Oh, please. She has a robin for a daemon!”

“He's very angry too.”

Marisa dropped his collar and rubbed her temples.

“Fine!” She sighed. “Where are you sleeping, then?”

She thought that was a mistake. She knew she should have stopped the moment they started talking, but she couldn't. None of them were used to leaving things unfinished and to leave would be like granting him a victory, so she stayed. What else could she do, she thought.

Asriel had her in his arms again, his face buried in her neck, as he walked to the guest room where he was staying, and Marisa felt the soft bed against her back, the bruise left by wall earlier still sore; daylight shone through the windows, and for once Asriel didn't seem bothered by it. He barely acknowledged the light, instead he had eyes on her and her alone, a sort of devotion to unfastening her blouse.

Marisa felt his warm breath against the inside of her thighs, and she closed her eyes, dwelling on that feeling. Even now, so many years later, every aspect of their relationship, whenever they surrendered to base feelings like that, was tainted by a feeling they were still having an affair. The worst part was that Marisa enjoyed that far too much; there was delight to be had with secrecy and furtiveness. There had never been a moment in their lives in which they hadn't been in confrontation; she knew no other way to talk to Asriel that didn't include an insult or a challenge. One way or the other, they concluded the exchange between them by clashing with each other; sexually if they were in a bad mood, or they would simply leave angry if they were in their right minds.

She was never in her right mind when she was near Asriel, that much she knew.

“You're too noisy.” He mumbled while taking his own shirt off, and she moved in bed to get more comfortable.

“Does it matter?”

“Thorold could hear us.”

“I'm sure he is used to it by now.”

She felt awkward while noticing how all felt so trivial now; one moment later, and he had already taken off his pants and was on top of her again, his arms around her, holding tight and as much as it was enjoyable, it felt slightly mundane.

He smelled so differently, but Marisa thought he still felt familiar and that comforted her, as well as distressed her, because the null left behind after every one of these rogue encounters was like a tear at her own pride. She closed her eyes again and emptied herself of all the words she knew. It was easier to love Asriel when her mind was silent.

Later, she waited until he fell asleep, his back turned on her, as if he felt ashamed to look in her eyes.

 _You're overthinking it_ , she thought. Maybe. She was never certain about it.

Marisa carefully got up and dressed herself. The monkey slowly got away from Stelmaria's embrace, even though he did not want to do it. Together, they left the room, as the night has already fallen outside, making everything dark. Thorold was nowhere to be seen, either already asleep or minding his business, so she steadily made her way to Dorothea's study.

“We need to leave everything as it is.” She whispered to the monkey.

They started looking for the journal; Marisa opened the desk drawers, carefully looking for its contents, and placing everything back in the same place. The monkey was fidgeting through the bookshelf, careful as not to misplace anything. It was difficult because it was against his very nature, he was impatient, but he tried, as they both knew that as long as no one knew the journal was missing, they would have a better headstart with it.

“Here!" He whispered, and quickly fetched the journal from inside its hiding place and took it back to Marisa.

She flipped the pages, taking a quick look inside; it was all in code, but she knew she could crack it. She even allowed herself to smirk at that small triumph.

“We need to go, come on.”

They left, quiet and in a hurry, and desperate to start working on that project of theirs.

Asriel woke up only hours later, when the sun was already up. He cleaned himself, then had his breakfast. Thorold made no indication that he had heard anything, and even if he had, he wouldn't have said anything. Then, Asriel went to Dorothea's study and sat down to continue reading the research.

Stelmaria's tail swinged, suddenly. She stood up and analysed the room. She murmured to him that something was weird.

Asriel calmly stood up and went to check the journal's hiding place. He wasn't even surprised that it was missing.


	4. subjected to his will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, I had a hard time setting up this whole chapter, it was too long, I had to split it. A bit of a mess really. I'm trying to make the story more active, but this first chapters are slow indeed. Thank you for your patience.

_I don't have the heart, it takes hold of me_   
**outsider by mormor**

“Have you considered my proposition, Marcel?” Eilhart whispered, as she appeared by his side so fast he didn’t have time to process her presence.

He dropped his pen, then looked at her as if she was a nuisance, which she probably was in his conception. His daemon opened her wings, perched at the desk where he was making his notes on a very big book.

“You mean the social suicide you want me to commit.” He murmured, picking up his pen and returning to his notes. Eilhart watched him, looking for a sign of weakness, but he was good at hiding his emotions.

“It's an investment.”

“You're insane.” He leaned in to whisper back, then returned his attention to the book.

They were in the archive, at the La Maison Juste building, and Dorothea probably shouldn't have been there, but she was very good at sneaking into places she shouldn't be. Sunlight glowed through the window nearby them, illuminating her face and keeping Marcel in the shade.

“I'm stating a fact.” She said, just as quietly. “If you want that recommendation from me, then you must give me something in return, it’s how this works.”

He let out a deep sigh, but he didn’t stop writing. Dorothea didn’t know what to expect. She watched him, curious, as he tried hard not to pay any attention to her, but her gaze must have weighed on him, because he dropped his pen again, with yet another heavy sigh. Marcel put both his hands on the desk and then turned his face to her, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. She smiled; he looked like if he could, he would slap her, but then again most men she knew looked at her like that, sometimes even Asriel did, so she was used to it. She actually sometimes thought that was flattering, as if that was the only time they even considered her an equal.

“This… this isn’t what I was expecting.” He murmured, then he straightened himself and got closer. “It’s not what I prepared for.”

“I _know,_ you meant to get in my skirts and hope I was _dimwitted_ enough that I’d believe you are a charming man.” She mocked. When they chatted in her hotel room, Marcel had revealed to her that he was informed she was “an honest but dimwitted woman.” She was amused and offended by it and he wouldn’t tell her who had said that. “Well, I’m not that dimwitted and you’re not that charming.”

Marcel closed his eyes, impatient, letting out the air upon her face. Astraeus straightened himself, his guard up, his restlessness a clear sign of his eagerness. Dorothea wished he had told her they were too close, it was the middle of the day, Binaud could've walked in on them and then she would have lost the only advantage she had. The only way to grant Marcel a recommendation as the successor to Binaud's role - which was his only request of her - was to ensure no one thought that recommendation was coming from an ambiguous relationship. It had to be professional, cold and distant; if Binaud thought they were involved, even if that wasn’t true, it wouldn't work. She was already planning on that, but she needed Marcel far more than he needed her and her time was running out.

“You enjoy insulting me.” His grin made Dorothea clench her fists. He unsettled her and that was the only thing she and Astraeus agreed on, concerning Marcel.

“You make it so easy, I can't resist.” He smiled when she said that, her impatient frown a clear amusement to him. She looked around but there was no one coming; Astraeus flew next to Marcel's owl and they started whispering things she couldn't hear, but she was sure they would end up being classified as self-sabotage later on. “I need an answer, Marcel. I don't have all the time in the world.”

“It's been a week, I need more time to think about this.” He said, adamantly but she shook her head.

“No! The people in those files don’t have that time and I cannot give it to you.”

“I can't just walk into the CCD building and steal their files!” He snapped, that was as close as yelling she had ever seen him, which was a mere raising of his voice. He clenched his fist in front of his mouth, his teeth burying into his own flesh. She thought that maybe he was going to finally lose his temper and hit her; truth be told, she was almost eagerly hoping for it, as that could give her a good reason to slap the shit out of him. Marcel, however, held back, letting go of his own grip and letting out the air in his lungs in a noisy action. “If I get caught, getting fired will be the least of my problems.”

They heard a door opening, so he took her by the elbow and shoved her into one of the inner corridors, that could only be accessed through the main corridor where they had been; that way, after he stopped in front of her, anyone who walked by would only see her if they really looked for her, past Marcel. She took a step back.

“If you want that recommendation, you have to find a way!” She lowered her voice.

He scoffed. 

“I could just tell them what you're planning.”

Eilhart felt the fear coming from that statement, she felt it in every fiber of her being because it was a real, tangible threat. If he told on her, she would face a scandal at best or months of interrogation, that would lead to arrests and worse. She breathed, calm and resolute, not an ounce of fear showing through her and - hopefully - not through Astraeus. Smiling, she took a step closer, her hand now on his forearm. They were roughly the same size, so she could stare him in the eyes without problem, and she tried to look as uncanny and intimidating as she could. By the wrinkle in his forehead, she assumed it had worked.

“You could,” she said, softly, pressing her fingers on his forearm. “But then, you'd have to find another way to get your recommendation and I can always say you were very indecent the day you walked me home.”

“Nothing happened, you know that.” He staggered, almost imperceptible, but he also had this glow of sardonic enjoyment in his eyes, as if he was daring her to continue with her threat. Did he really think she didn't have the gall to go on with it? _Perhaps he is right_ , she thought, but brushed that thought away fast because any sign of hesitation was a weakness she could not afford to have anywhere near him.

“Of course, but do you think Binaud will believe you?” She whispered, her mouth twisted into a disturbing grin, so forced she was almost feeling pain. She hated that, the lying, the pretending, the threatening, it was too horrible even for her standards and they were very low already. He narrowed his eyes; Eilhart didn't know him enough, but she almost assumed he was amused by all of that. “I can destroy your career very quickly. All I need is a teary scandal. Do not test me, Marcel.”

“You don’t have authority here, Lady Eilhart.”

“True, but then again you forget that your boss is my godfather, and the most pious man I have ever met. Don’t underestimate how desperate I am.”

She let go of his arm and took a step back in case he decided to strangle her. He was strong, but she assumed she could fight back if that happened. He spent a while in silence, watching her, his arms crossed, his eyes darting up and down, then back to his daemon who was still whispering to Astraeus. She felt dirty, as she always did whenever she had to break her own morals in the name of survival.

“I need more time to think.” He said, and her impatience got the best of her, so she clicked her tongue and rubbed her temples. “This is no small request. I'm assuming I have a choice, of course.”

Eilhart froze, her heartbeat so fast she thought he could see it bumping through her clothes. _He knew exactly where to poke_ , she told Astraeus later, distressed. He knew exactly what to say to break her, and it worked. She felt so insulted by the idea of coercing him into doing something that she couldn't help herself.

“Of course you have a choice. I’m not the CCD, if that’s what you are trying to imply.” She mumbled, too fast; the way he looked at her made her realise she had lost control and she feared this time she wouldn't get it back. “All I want is the files. As long as you don't get in my way, if you decide not to help me, I don't care about what you do.”

He stood in silence watching her, which made her uncomfortable. She tried to walk past him, but he stopped her, a hand on her elbow.

“I'd like to leave, _please._ " She said, rudely.

“Before you do, though, tell me: you mentioned a man, Julian, back at Binaud's place. Who is he?”

Dorothea felt a shiver; it wasn't of fear but of rage and sadness and Marcel wasn't the cause of it for once. He wanted a quick answer for a story that could last for eternity, if only life was fair. Eilhart knew he had realised there lay a valuable secret; she was now pondering if she should give it to him as a way to lure him into helping her or leave him in the dark.

“He was their son.” She realised, as she spoke, that she was a fool.

Marcel raised his eyebrows, legitimately astonished by what she had said.

“I wasn't aware they had a son.”

“They hid him well.” She sighed and he noticed, but didn't say anything. “He was their eldest son, and my fiance for a brief moment when I was younger. He was also homosexual.”

“Ah, I see.” The corners of his mouth twisted a little bit. “Must have broken your heart, then.”

She snorted, suddenly feeling tired and old, which was a bit of exaggeration given she was in her thirties. She used the back of her hand to rub her forehead, before looking into his eyes. Eilhart didn’t want him to see the sadness in her, but somehow she thought at this point, that was useless. They all saw the sadness, the weariness she felt all the time.

“I knew who he was. He was my closest friend and I wanted him to be free from all the persecution he endured in his family.” She murmured; Astraeus went back to her shoulder, chirping piously and rubbed his little head against her cheek. “A big title and massive money can allow anyone to be quirky, no one cares about what rich people do as far as I know. Binaud and his wife sent him to several of those “fixing” camps, groups, therapies, torture chambers. When we got engaged, they thought all was fixed, but the damage was too deep. Julian couldn’t take a life of lying, so he killed himself. Marcy blames me for it, she says I’ve indulged him in his _practices,_ as she called them. Auguste seems to have forgiven me, though, but he is a pious man. I assume I am his ultimate test of faith.”

Marcel raised an eyebrow and made a soft noise in his throat, as if he was pondering what to say next.

“Curious how well they hid the existence of a son.” He finally said, then took a step aside; she walked past him and stood back in the sunlit spot. Then, she turned around to face him again. “It seems so strange, I’ve never even heard of him before this.”

“I don’t think Binaud allows them to talk about him and they did made a lot of effort to hide Julian’s existence. They didn’t even bury him, mind you, I had to fly from England to do that and not a priest in the region would do it. They forbade me - and them - from burying him with the rest of his family, so I flew back to England to do it.” Dorothea felt the weight of her body, suddenly; it was as if gravity was pulling her down. _Who knew distaste could be so powerful_ , she wondered.

“You shouldn’t tell him these things.” Astraeus whispered in her ear, and as much as she agreed, the damaged had already been done. The way Marcel looked at her, condescending and even unimpressed, angered her, so Dorothea straightened herself, raising her chin a little.

“Tell me,” she said, and he changed his stance, crossing his arms over his chest, his owl now on his shoulders as well. “Do you think those methods are worth it?”

“I’m not responsible for them.” It was all he said, no smiles, no frowns, no reaction about something that required a reaction.

“But you’re part of the problem. Do you think violence is efficient?”

“Do you?”

She raised her eyebrows, restless. She couldn’t pry anything out of him; it was just like Marisa, except with Marisa, Eilhart knew where they stood with each other. It was like trying to walk in the dark, with Marcel, with no idea what was to come. She straightened her coat around herself.

“I think it’s barbaric.” She spat and Marcel laughed, disdainful.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not efficient.”

Dorothea felt her blood boil; she pressed her lips tightly.

“You’re a fucking asshole, aren’t you?” The last thing she heard as she left was his laughter.

She decided to sneak back through the front door, instead of jumping out of a window, as it was still daylight, so she walked casually through the corridors that were public, pretending she had just got there and had walked into the wrong spot. No one seemed to notice, it was mostly a calm day, and she walked out the door as if she belonged at the place.

“We should seek someone else’s help.” Astraeus flew beside her, as she made her way back to her hotel through a busy street. "You're putting too much faith in him."

“No. He’ll help us.”

“You just insulted him!”

“Yeah, but he enjoys it. It’s a game to him, I just need to let him win.”

“All this _win_ and lose talk, I should’ve known!” Astraeus chastised her but she shook her head. “You like him!”

“I don’t. Now, shut up.” She thought that had he phrased that better, she would’ve found it difficult to deny. They never lied to each other, it was their sole rule, because they lied a lot in their line of work; that way, they always understood each other well and never lost themselves. Even if they lied, they would know of course, which is why they never did.

She calmly crossed a street and Astraeus found his place on her shoulder again. Her shoulder length hair covered him from sight.

"Do you think Auguste believed those pictures Godwin's contact gave us?" He asked, as she made her way to a cafe nearby and sat down. It was a lovely place, with tables spread around the sidewalk and she ordered a cup of coffee and watched the street movement.

"I hope so. That's our most valuable card to get that recommendation." She took a sip of her coffee. Her waitress gave her a slight nod from behind the counter, a lovely girl, barely in her twenties, and _Godwin's contact_ , so to speak. Dorothea felt great fear and admiration on her behalf, because that line of work at the heart of the Magisterium was immensely dangerous, but it granted big rewards as well.

"He didn't even agree to help us and you're already working on that!"

"He'll help, trust me."

"I trust _you_ , but not him. You should send someone to follow Marcel." Astraeus said, but she shook her head.

"He's too clever. We're bound to fail and get caught, and it's worse if he distrusts us too much." She finished her coffee. "Besides, I have this odd feeling about him I'm having a hard time distinguishing."

"Maybe if you weren't determined to fuck him, you would know what it is." He mocked her, but she ignored that remark.

She called the waitress to pay for her coffee and left a gigantic tip, that was of course, not a tip, but the payment for the pictures she had taken for Dorothea. With Astraeus on her shoulder, she took off again, this time back to her hotel.

“How do you think Asriel is doing?” Astraeus asked, trying to brush off his last mean comment.

For once in that day, she grinned with legitimate joy.

“I think he’s doing okay, but knowing Asriel, our house could be already on fire.”

*******

Dorothea's apartment was not on fire, but Asriel was somehow thinking that would be easier to explain than the alternative.

“You just proved her right, she told us she knew you couldn't control yourself around Marisa and she was right!” Stelmaria said, more amused than anxious about their dilemma. Asriel did remind her that it was _their_ dilemma, not just his, but she still thought the whole thing was hilarious, as well as easily avoidable. “If only you had any self-restraint.”

“If you have no intention of helping me, Stelmaria, I suggest you make yourself scarce.”

They were sitting at the balcony, taking in the fresh end-of-Spring air, as Asriel pondered what to do now that he had lost Eilhart's green journal. He had tried approaching Marisa and asking her to return it, and not to his surprised she refused, fiercely.

“Dorothea will find out.” He said, through the door, after Marisa shut it on his face. He thought it was silly to use _that_ as a threat, as if Marisa had the slightest fear of a woman she knew quite well.

“And I will give it back to her, once I'm done with it.”

“It’s encrypted!” He slammed his hand on the door, several times, and she opened it slightly.

“I _know_ _._ ” Her smile was vicious, he noticed. “I _helped_ her create this code.”

Asriel frowned, but just a little. He did not expect Dorothea to be stupid enough to use a code she co-created with Marisa, of all people, for her confidential stash, but there they were.

“When she comes back--”

“What? She’s not gonna come in here and steal it back. Unlike you, she still has her reputation to preserve.” Marisa opened the door a little more and grinned and he wanted so hard to slap that triumph out of her face, but he held back.

“I still have a reputation, and so do you, _adulteress._ ” He said, taking a step forward. The monkey growled and her smile vanished.

“Leave.”

“Give me the journal and I will go.” She slammed the door on his face again. He knocked, again.

“If you come back, I’ll call the police and have them charge you with harassment.” She yelled through the door and he had a feeling she walked away, so he did the same.

The damage had already been done regardless of any of his attempts to retrieve the journal, so now he was trying to minimize it.

“What if we steal it back?” He suggested, sipping at his Tokay; Stelmaria yawned and placed her head on his knee.

“We get caught, we could get in serious trouble.”

“We can pull it off.”

“And if we don't, Marisa has a great excuse to demand for Lyra's custody.” Stelmaria curled back in her place. “That would be unfortunate.”

He sighed, because she was right. He was trying to remedy a situation long broken.

“Marisa is too clever, she’ll be expecting us to try.” Stelmaria added. “We’re bound to fail.”

Asriel felt his whole body giving in to exhaustion, so he finished his glass of wine and nodded.

“You’re right, she _is_ very clever. I should’ve known she would do something like this.” He placed the glass on the table with a soft noise. “I have to think this through. Maybe we can find something else she wants and trade.”

“It’s unlike her to do business with us, but perhaps that could work.”

“You could sweet talk her daemon.” His malicious smile made her laugh too, but she shook her head before lying down again.

“I’m no miracle worker, Asriel. Leave it be.” She said. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

“You don’t need to lecture me in Dorothea’s place, Stelmaria. I know I made a mistake. Leave it be.” He mimicked her tone and she rolled her eyes.

“You should write her, you know, let her know what’s happening here.” 

“Yes, I probably should.” He said but he did not move.

He didn't want to prove her right at such long distance.


	5. the spoils of desecration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some rough foreplay in this chapter, just in case you need to know. Not explicit sex though.  
> Also, a quick disclaimer: I'm writing from a perspective where Glenys Godwin still is healthy, so her daemon still moves normally. Just letting you know in case it gets confusing.

_then suddenly you're left alone with your body that can't love you,_   
_and your will that can't save you._   
**rainer maria rilke.**

Eilhart drank the entire content of her glass, sitting at the bar at the reception of the history symposium she was attending. Astraeus tried to soothe her by brushing his soft head against her cheeks, his little warm paws grabbing at her bare shoulder, but she was finding it difficult to stop shaking.

“I never imagined something so silly as learning about Bonneville's son would trigger this on you.” She heard Marcel’s voice before she acknowledged his presence, as he sat by her side; she glanced over him, with an expression of sheer distaste and then asked for another drink. “I thought you were made of sturdier stuff, Lady Eilhart.”

“You are aware I own a gun, no?” She said, downing the recently brought up glass of gin in one go. It hurt her throat, but it still hurt less than whatever she was feeling at the moment. Marcel’s laughter made her flinch; she felt a sudden urge to punch him, and she blamed it on the alcohol even though it wasn’t its fault. “I’d like to be left alone, Delamare.”

“Of course you would, but I have something you would like to know about.” He sat beside her, ordering a drink for himself. He waited until the barman left them alone. She raised her head, only partially interested. “Tell me first: why are you like this over such a trivial matter?”

She turned to face him, furious on the inside, but she swallowed it. They were in public, in a place filled with scholars and aristocrats, and she didn't want to make a scene. She wouldn’t have cared, if she didn’t need Binaud’s good faith if she was to get Marcel what he wanted so he could give her what she wanted. His owl landed on the counter, but Dorothea sent a very clear mental message to Astraeus that he was not to move from his place. He chirped, upset.

“From what I knew, Bonneville was a bachelor. When he died, I was quite relieved, truth be told. Nobody was going to miss the fucker, in my opinion.” She said, scratching her eyebrow; she took his drink from his hand and took another sip. It was hideously bitter but it shooked her out of her sorrows. “This is horrible… Anyway, a son and a wife, that changes things. Someone likely missed him, I assume. What do you know about them?”

“Not much. She raises him somewhere in France, he’s roughly thirteen, fourteen, and they seem to have enough income to survive. That’s about what I know and it’s mostly gossip. I’ll have this back, thank you.” He took his drink back from her hands, while she looked at him, suspicious. “And no, I have no interest in this. I simply overheard things, given Bonneville was intimate of the Magisterial circle.”

“I see.”

“He was also very intimate of you, or so I heard.”

She scoffed, a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Yes, I got involved with him while I went for a summer course in France. We wanted to know how much did he know about Rusakov particles at the time and I was a convenient asset to approach. Young and gullible.” Dorothea mumbled, and she couldn’t understand the glitter of amusement he had in his eyes. She sighed, because she already felt he knew more than he was letting it on. “It was part of my cover, so to speak. One of my first assignments on my own.”

“I heard he gave you a parting gift.”

“A gift?” She asked, and his vicious grin should’ve been enough for her to guess he was coming for her throat with the meanest memory he could find, but she was slightly drunk, so she failed to predict it.

“A scar, on your back.”

She felt a shiver down her spine. First, came the fear, the memory; then the anger and confusion, because he wasn’t supposed to know about that. Marcel finished his drink and placed the glass on the counter, waiting, watching her, not unlike a predator, and she couldn’t disguise her distaste. Other than herself, the only person who knew about the scar was Marisa, because she had witnessed it, and as far as Dorothea knew, Marisa didn’t know Marcel. She felt Astraeus shrink on her shoulder, as he felt her wrath and then she knew he had been the gossipy one.

“Yes, he pushed me against a glass display and I got very close to being impaled, but I got lucky, as the doctor said later. Yeah, _lucky_.” She looked at the barman, wanting to order another drink because she badly needed it, but Astraeus advised against it. Dorothea was still angry at him, but she chose to heed his advice. “You said you had something to tell me.”

He gave her a piece of paper she recognised as the list of names she gave him during their hotel meeting. Their idea for stealing the files without gaining suspicion was that some files would have to be left behind, a situation she prepared for, by making a list of ten names expendable or, in most cases, people harder to reach. Seeing the paper back in her hands made her feel cold.

“I take it this a no, then.” She whispered, but he grinned.

“Quite the contrary, Lady Eilhart. The names I left behind have a red dot on them, take a look.”

She opened the folded paper and found out he was telling the truth. She put the names in order of priority, which meant her name was at the top, a red dot beside it; beneath her was George Papadimitriou, protected by scholastic sanctuary if he ever needed; then Bud Schlesinger, now a diplomat, protected by diplomatic immunity. Marcel had skipped some of the names, which she assumed meant they had no files, which was a relief to her; most of the names on the list were scholars or members of academic environments, or gyptians. Normal, decent people who simply helped Oakley Street’s struggles, so she feared for their lives the most. The last two names of the remnants were unfamiliar people to her, but one was a scholar and the other was a lawyer.

“Are you happy with my choices?” Marcel asked, quietly. She looked around but no one was paying attention to them. 

“Happy is not the word I would use, but yes, I am satisfied.” She whispered. “Did you get all the others?”

“I did.” 

“How did you get them?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He whispered. “All that matters is that I got them.”

“I want to see them.”

“No.”

Dorothea sighed, and he barely moved, his posture turned to the rest of the salon, his eyes moving from every person within reach of sight, as if he cared more about scholars than he did about their quiet conversation. She thought he looked utterly bored.

“I need to be sure you really have them.” She added but he shook his head.

“You still haven't delivered your part of the deal.” It was all he said and she softly rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, to hide her expression of contempt.

“My part of the deal is far more complicated than just stealing files.” She scoffed, even though she knew she shouldn't have. 

“Well, that's not my problem, is it?” He glimpsed at her and all he saw was her unhappy frown. He raised an eyebrow. “I've read your file.”

“Don't analyze me.” She turned away, but his gaze was heavy, or perhaps it was the fact Astraeus was slowly approaching the owl for a conversation that distracted Dorothea, and she looked at him again, her chin up, defiant, slightly afraid but he would have to search her soul for that evidence. “What do you know?”

He stood up, and got close, his hand grabbing her elbow lightly, his fingers a little cold. She laughed heartily, because the barman looked their way and if he saw her frowning he would have been suspicious.

“I know you killed two men and has at least two arsons in your long list of anarchy.” He said with amusement in his voice. He pulled away, taking his hands away from her, and looked down as she was still seated. She looked him in the eyes, wide eyes and flushed, to the point Astraeus went immediately back to his place on her shoulder as he felt her distress. “Of course, they have no proof. But they see you as a person of interest, someone who could fund resistance activities.”

“That's not good.” She mumbled to herself, mostly.

“I would say you've been doing just fine so far.” He mocked, and she knew he was provoking her, so she didn't bite the bait this time.

“One file. That's all I need as proof, then I can focus on getting you that promotion.” She turned away. She asked him for the time and he informed her it was around nine thirty. “Meet me at my hotel at midnight.”

“That's very late. How drunk are you?”

She stood up, determined. “Oh please, river Thames has more alcohol than the drinks of this country. One file, bring it with you.”

“You're not considering the possibility that I might already have plans.” She watched as he put his hands on his pockets, a little uncomfortable. _Good_ , she thought.

She scoffed, waving her hand to dismiss what he said.

“You're a loner. It's Saturday night and you're pestering me at an academic event when you are not even a scholar. If you had plans, you would already be where you had to be.” Astraeus flew around her head and that gave her confidence, even though she was still mad at him. She took a step away from Marcel. “Bring a file with you. Midnight.”

“I might not make it.”

“You will. Don’t keep me waiting.” She didn't give him time to go on, instead turning on her heels and walking away, with Astraeus flying close by.

Eilhart chose to make her departure known, saying goodbye to familiar scholars and politicians, then leaving the building after getting her coat at the reception. Marcel didn't follow her, but she was confident he would show up. He had to.

She took a cab back to her hotel, and the silence gave her time to think about Astraeus and how his loose tongue had exposed her so violently.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He whispered in her ear but she didn't say anything.

When she reached her hotel, she paid the cab, quickly examined the reception and thought it was too crowded.

“But at midnight it shall be quiet.” Astraeus whispered to her, and she nodded, as they took the elevator up.

She then took a bath to wash away the scent of perfume and smoke and gin, then dressed in a simple dress and took a nap. She woke up an hour later, roughly at eleven, and feeling more energised, she took a bite of one of the pastries she had bought in the morning and sat down to make notes on her green journal.

“Do you think Asriel knows?” Astraeus asked her, perched on a book in her table, as she was beginning to write Marcel's name as a new entry.

“I don't know, but I don't think so.” She finished writing his name, already in code, then rested the pen on the paper, unsure about what to write.

“He'll be mad!”

“I'm sure he will, but he doesn't have the right to complain after everything we've done for him.” She closed the journal, and put it away. Not knowing what to write, she didn't know what else to do, and as time went by, she was becoming restless.

“Are you still angry with me?” Astraeus asked, jumping in front of her as she started to write a letter to Lord Nugent. She looked at him then looked back to the letter and went on writing.

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, Thea, I am. I didn't mean any harm. I didn't think she would tell him!”

Dorothea abruptly dropped her pen and stared her own daemon down.

“How come? They are one, just like you and I! Of course she told him! Has she told you anything about him?” She demanded, furious, and he shook his little robin head. “See? You told them something intimate of ours, and you know nothing of them, nothing I can use to keep him in line. But he came right for my throat with the Bonneville business and got inside my head before I could even defend myself!”

Astraeus flew around her, then landed again and opened his wings, irritated.

“Oh, he got inside your head a while ago, with all that talk of advantages and games and all this teasing!!! You can't resist that, I know!” He said, defiant and she bit her lower lip because she hated how true all of that was.

“Not true.” She lied and he chirped loudly and menacingly and a little hurt because they were not supposed to lie to each other, but she felt so ashamed she chose to break their sacred rule.

“Yes, true! You invited him so late because you want him to _stay!_ ”

“I invited him late because it's more discrete, not that you understand how subterfuge works, telling her every secret of mine!” Dorothea pointed her finger at him. “You are supposed to help me, not him. He could hurt me or worse!”

He flew around her hair and pulled a strand of her hair, making her gasp. He felt the discomfort too, but it annoyed her much more.

“Your father would be very happy, seeing you all funny with a Magisterium--”

“Don't you fucking dare!” She slammed her hand on the table. “You're the one showing off for that owl of his, your pretty little feathers this way and that, as if you were a peacock!”

“She's nice to me, Dorothea! She's intelligent, educated.” He landed on her shoulder and she felt comfort, even though she was still angry, in having his warm presence close. “He is so mean to you, all the time. But you still invited him here, and you still want to--”

“It’s all sweet-talk, you know that. You _must_ know that.” Dorothea said, and he rubbed his little head against her cheek. She felt sorry for him. She knew he was right about Marcel; he was mean, yes, and sometimes cruel, and disrespectful, and she still stayed around him. She knew where they stood with each other, at least on that personal account, or she hoped she knew, but Astraeus was trusting and sensitive. He was sharp and witty, but he ultimately was far too optimistic to see certain scenarios. “He is… They are Magisterium.”

“I know. I just… I don’t know.”

She was going to say something reassuring, but there was a knock on the door. She expected a little bit more anxiety on her part, but perhaps she was already too used to the whole thing. _What if he brought soldiers with him instead?_ She thought. Well, that would've been a novelty. She was far too entertained with that thought.

He was alone when she opened the door, of course. She thought he looked fresh too, as if he had showered or if he had drunk something strong. He had a bottle of something in his hand. Dorothea raised an eyebrow.

“I remember asking you for a file, not a drink.” She mocked and he laughed, walking in without an invitation, not that he needed one.

“Well, you were complaining about the bad alcohol they had at the party, I decided to bring you a proper drink.”

She watched him put the bottle down on her table then turn back to her, taking the file from inside the inner pocket of his jacket. It was a very thin one, she thought, two pages only and it was mostly public information. A name, an address, some information that clearly came from someone following the file's target. She didn't know the man from the file very well, but she knew Godwin would know him; he worked at the office of Oakley Street.

Seated on the armchair, turned to face the balcony, Dorothea breathed with relief and she almost forgot Marcel was there, if he hadn't taken the file from her hands.

“Now, I need to see you working to get me what I need.”

She stood up to face him. Astraeus had resisted the urge to talk to Marcel's daemon so far, but then she landed on the table, where the green journal was, and he flew to her, eager and they started talking, quietly.

“You'll see the work I have done so far in a few days, trust me.” She thought the pictures she had shown Binaud should have been enough, but so far he hadn't made a move. That worried her but not too much; she had confidence in her plan.

Marcel took a step forward and grabbed her by her wrists, tight and pulled her close enough that she could see every detail of his eyes.

“Don't try to double cross me, Dorothea!” He spat, and she tried to get away from his grip, but he was stronger than she anticipated.

“I haven't and I shall not do it, as long as you come forward with your word.” She squealed, trying to get away but he tightened his grip and pressed her against the closest wall; her head hit the wall and she whined. “You're hurting me.”

She said it in a warning tone that was ineffective against him. He smiled, and she saw a glimpse of Astraeus playing, or something like that, with the owl, as she kept him down on the table just like Marcel kept her pressed against the cold wall.

“Good. This way you know I mean every word I say.”

“I could just steal the files from you, now that you have them.” She hissed, closing in whatever distance was left between them. He pressed her wrists down, holding her own arms behind her while he stared her down. “It would be much easier than dealing with you.”

“Then I could tell them you have the files.” He hissed back when she struggled to free one of her hands from his grip, with no success and he pulled her against the wall, hitting her back. The pain made her slightly dizzy.

“I could just kill you and dump your body in a river.” She smiled, sweet and innocent, then used her head to hit his face. Her forehead met his lips and she didn't use much force but the impact filled his mouth with blood. He waited for two seconds; she thought he was considering whether to spit or swallow and she was amused by that thought. He spat then, blood and saliva, on her chest, staining her light-coloured dress; Dorothea knew he wanted to spit on her face but that would've been too far. She went on: “Tell me, would you be missed if you were gone?”

He chuckled when she bit his lower lip and pulled it back, tight. He hissed; there was still a bit of blood in his mouth, she could taste it.

“Is this your way of checking if I'm available?”

“I know you are, what I want to know is if you have anyone who cares for you?” She whispered; he softened his grip on her hands, his forehead touching hers as he leaned in to look into her eyes. “Have you left a mark in the world, something to be missed for? If I dump you in a river, would someone weep for you? Would someone claim you?”

He kissed her, slowly then pulled back. He tasted of blood, indeed.

“You're full of philosophical nonsense.”

“You are not taking me seriously!”

“I am. I'm fully aware you could kill me. I've read your file, and I have to admit, I thought perhaps you hired someone else but after _this--”_ Dorothea watched him touch his upper lip where she had wounded them. “I think you're more than capable of just snapping my neck.”

“You’re evading my question, though.”

“You’re being nosy.” He sighed when all she did was grin. “Yes, if you tried something, someone _would_ miss me. That is why you’re asking me that, isn’t it?”

She didn’t reply and he kissed her again, shoving her against the wall once more, her shoulder hitting the panel with a loud noise. Eilhart groaned from the pain, but he did not care. She thought everything about Marcel was methodical, and cold and precise, everything was a measurement of something, every gaze was just his way of weighting everything. He kissed her methodically and undressed her methodically, and she was so unfamiliar with this cold intimacy that she felt slightly inexperienced.

He would pull her hair and scratch her back and bite her lips so strongly she bled; he left bite marks on her neck and her thighs, so deep some of them actually wounded her and she knew she had scratched him so strongly some of her nails broke. In the morning, when he left, Dorothea took note of the damage; half the things on the table were now on the floor, even her green journal, untouched to her relief and next to it was the file; there was a broken glass somewhere; in the mirror, she examined herself and there were so many bruises one might have thought she had an altercation with someone brutal. She smiled, though, a bitter, shameful smile.

Astraeus was right. He was so cruel to her, and she enjoyed it far too much.

***

Next day, Glenys Godwin’s office phone rang several times before she picked it up. On a Sunday, the office was practically empty, except for the archive twenty-something man, sitting at his desk in silence; Godwin herself was only there because she was finishing up some reports and keeping things tidy before her transfer to South America. So, when the phone rang, she was a bit surprised which is why she hesitated a bit before answering.

“Thea? Is that you?” She said when she heard Eilhart’s voice. She thought she sounded tired, breathless. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Glenys, I’m fine. I hope you’re well too.”

“I am.” Glenys mumbled, then she turned around in her spot as not to face the archive boy, but he seemed to notice she wanted privacy, because she took a pile of paper and left the room. Glenys was left alone, mild sunlight warming her skin as it came through the open window with the breeze. “We were worried. Nugent is livid. You hadn’t reported in two weeks!”

“I apologise. Things got a little rushed here, but I’ve written him a letter and posted it today, and I’m calling just to tell you that I’m fine and everything is under control.” Dorothea’s voice was followed by a groan that made Godwin frown. She didn’t sound in control of anything. “I’m sorry for not contacting you before, not that my apologies matter to Nugent, anyway.”

“Are you really alright? You don’t sound alright.” Godwin said, and she heard Dorothea sigh and chuckle, and then she moaned again. Godwin heard her robin daemon chirping nearby the phone, distressed. “Talk to me, Thea.”

Another sigh, another grunt. Another daemon's chirp filled with pain. Godwin didn't know what to make of it. Was she hurt?

“It’s fine, don’t worry. My shoulder is hurting again, that’s all.”

“What did you do?”

“Why does everyone _always_ assume I did--” She started, with her bratty tone but Godwin wasn’t having any of it.

“Don’t try it, Thea, you know I don’t buy it. Just tell me what you’ve done.”

“Fuck, fine. I might have gotten slammed against wall. Work injury, of a sort." The robin said something to Dorothea that resembled a reprimand. "It-- it’s fine, the doctor will see me this evening.”

“What do you mean, _work injury_?” Godwin felt slightly uncomfortable. Dorothea wasn’t known for being careless, especially not to the point of getting caught. Or usually, when that happened, they often heard of it first in the papers, always a scandal, a murder, a mystery. “Did you get in trouble getting the files?”

There was a silence, followed by a laughter that sounded more painful than it should have. Godwin frowned in compassion.

“No, nothing like that. It’s… complicated, but I did get the files. Well, sort of.”

Godwin couldn’t help but laugh too, and her cat daemon jumped on the desk, lying down while watching her expression as she talked to her friend.

“What do you mean? Why are you talking like this?” Godwin used her free hand to rub the nape of her neck; she turned her head this way and the other, trying to relieve whatever tension was causing her pain and it worked, slightly. “Are you really safe? Where are you? Where--”

“Calm down, Glenys. I’m safe. I’m at my hotel. The files are no longer with the CCD, but they’re also not with me either. I only have one, so far.” Glenys heard her sigh and thought things must have been dire, then. “My contact has them, but he’s slightly bothered that my part of our deal hasn’t been delivered yet.”

Eilhart was supposed to go to Geneva, recover the files and return; Nugent had assumed two weeks was enough for her to do it, she even said that was all she needed. Instead, she reported her arrival by phone, and then went silent for two weeks, with no letters, no reports, avoiding every attempt of Nugent to communicate with her through envoys. The only contact they had was halfway through her first week there, when a telegram came asking Godwin, and Godwin alone, about a contact that could help her follow someone. Godwin replied with a telegram too, much to Nugent’s dislike, and then there was silence again. She didn’t expect their disagreement to be so strong that Dorothea was misbehaving like that, but there they were, stranded in different countries, both communicating with each other through Godwin, who had a lot on her plate already with her trip and new assignment.

“You made a deal, then.” Godwin said and Dorothea explained, without saying names, that a deal had been the safest and more pacific approach. Godwin didn’t feel any surprise, after all it was like Dorothea to choose a non-violent path to solve a problem; her daemon stretched on his place, a little bored with the fact he couldn’t quite listen to the conversation. “Do you think he’ll double cross you?”

Her silence was enough of an answer, but she still tried to salvage the situation. Godwin indulged her, listening patiently.

“I don’t trust him, but I think it’s in his interest to be friends with me rather than throw me to the wolves. I do trust my instincts.” Another sigh, a chirp from her daemon on the other side. Godwin had never heard her sound so tired, not like that anyway.

“I trust your instincts too, but sometimes you can be wrong, you know that.”

“I do and it’s a chance I’m willing to take. I can’t take responsibility for other people’s choices.”

They stood in silence for a while longer, calmly listening to each other's breathing. Godwin had a feeling Dorothea wanted to talk, she _need_ _ed_ to talk, though she was struggling to say anything. Godwin sent her daemon an inquisitive glance and he merely nodded. She wanted to ask a question.

“What is your part of the deal, Thea?” She heard Dorothea’s quiet laughter and didn’t know how to classify it. Shame? Amusement? Despair?

“My part of the deal is a promotion. Which is likely to happen soon, but that does not guarantee the files for me.” Godwin made a soft humming sound when she heard the promotion bit, which Dorothea heard clearly. “Yes, a _promotion_. My contact is within the Magisterium.”

Godwin mouthed the words Magisterium member to her daemon, who immediately sat down, staring at her, intensely. She knew he was thinking, considering all things.

“Well, that was expected but… a promotion?” Godwin mumbled. “Isn’t that a little dangerous, considering you have told him about us?”

“He’s not CCD, and his organisation is far less important than most of the others. I think it’s safe enough.”

“Who is he?”

“I won’t tell you.” Dorothea snapped, and Godwin laughed. "I _can't_ tell you."

"Why? How dangerous is he?"

"Not much. It's not that, I just cannot tell you who he is." Dorothea sighed, or maybe it was a sob. Godwin frowned. "I can't, Glenys."

“What have you done?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want you to know who he is.” Dorothea paused, panting; Godwin thought she might have had another spasm of pain. “Now, listen: I need you to tell Nugent we might have to arrange an extraction once I get a fair amount of files. I can’t mail them, I don’t think it’s safe. I’ll contact him once I get them and we can think of something--”

“Oh my, you’re trading sexual favours for the files!” Godwin looked around the office to see if the assistant was anywhere nearby. He wasn’t but she still lowered her voice.

“Of course not!” But Dorothea hesitated. “I mean, not really. Not intentionally. I technically only got one file! It wasn't deliberately, he just left it behind so it would look like I'm fucking for favours. It's his idea of fun, I suppose.”

“You’re too involved with your delivery man.” Godwin's warning tone had a hint of laughter. "Honestly, it's like you can't help it, sometimes--"

“No, Glenys. We will not discuss this on the phone. I cannot discuss this over the phone ” She had a stern tone now, and Godwin thought she might have hit a nerve. She sounded distressed, upset even. “When I’m back, we’ll gossip, I know that’s what you want. But for now, I can’t. Please don’t ask me to.”

There was another silence between them, another groan on Dorothea’s side.

“Now, I’ll tell you the names of the files he couldn’t get me.” She began again and Godwin reached for a pen nearby and a piece of paper. She took note of five names, all of them very familiar to her, and listened as Dorothea heavy-breathed instructions regarding each name. She took note of that too. “Please, warn Nugent as soon as you can. I wrote most of what I told you in the letter I sent to him, but it’s vital these people are warned about this soon.”

“I’ll do so today, as soon as I’m done here.” Godwin said and she smiled when Dorothea thanked her in her own sweet and upset way.

“Don’t tell him about my indiscretion, please. He is already going to lecture me on misbehaving, I’d like my private affairs to stay private.” Godwin thought she sounded a little bitter, even if she sounded like she was laughing. “Besides I don’t think his poor heart could withstand the shock of knowing my lack of decency."

“He always did say you would be death of him.” Godwin could almost see Eilhart rolling her eyes at that and she felt a jolt of amusement. “You do be careful.”

“I always am.”

“Liar.”

Godwin finished her paperwork once Dorothea hung up, then she prepared to leave, her daemon following her around, regal and solemn. She said goodbye to the assistant and walked out of the building. The air was dry and crisp, she chose to walk to Nugent's place instead of taking a cab. It wasn't very far anyway and she could use the exercise.

She was there after noon and he settled his tea set in a coffee table nearby, so they could converse in his living room. The first thing she did was hand him her own reports which she quickly explained what was what, before handing him the paper with the names Dorothea had told her.

“Papadimitriou, Schlesinger, Harker, Reid.” Nugent said and Glenys watched him, carefully, her teacup in hand. She thought he looked old and tired but then again, the same could be said about her, or Dorothea or most of their associates. Who would have thought the constant struggle with an almighty organisation would deprive them of their youth? “And of course, our dear lady. I told her not to risk herself, but she had to go and leave her name behind. She loves pain, that one. She craves it.” He took a sip of his tea and put the piece of paper inside his inner pocket. “Has she said anything else?”

“She did mention a letter she mailed today to you, and she said that while the files are no longer with the CCD, they are still on a slow path to her, sir.” Glenys told him, almost everything, except for Dorothea's seemingly indecency. “From what I gathered, her contact there is not quite reliable.”

Nugent sighed, resting his chin on his hand as he looked outside, through a window. Glenys awaited eagerly for any information he could give her and he seemed to be aware she was expecting that, because he looked back at her and said:

“Truth be told, I didn't expect her to get the files at all, but here we are. Clever woman, always knew how to make a bargain.”

“You didn't think she could?” That was indeed a surprise. Nugent was Dorothea's adamant supporter in the agency, besides Godwin who was quite the pragmatic. She liked her friend and trusted her, but the lady's lack of respect for rules and a taste for fiery tantrums sometimes got in the way of their work.

“I thought we would have to steal them but she just wanted to prove me wrong. Well, spite is as good a motivator as any.” He shrugged. “Did she say anything else? What can we expect?”

“She didn't give details but I assume she might have said something in the letter.”

“Doubtful. She's still mad I didn't listen to her, this is a punishment.”

Godwin grinned, softly.

“In my experience, contradicting her usually is pointless, sir.”

“You're hiding something, Godwin. You're protecting her.” Nugent smiled and Godwin nodded. "Why?"

“She asked me not to share something personal.” Godwin raised an eyebrow; lying to Nugent was just as pointless.

"Does it affect our work?" He asked. 

"It might, or it might not. I don't know all the details, sir."

"Can you contain the problem, if the need arises?"

Godwin blinked, feeling uncomfortable. He was practically asking her if she was up to cleaning up an ugly mess, but she hardly hesitated. _She's just having fun_ , she thought, _how badly could this end?_ She remembered that line of thinking, years later, with bitter resentment. "Yes, I can, sir." She said.

“Then I don't care about her dalliances.” He chuckled, when Godwin's eyebrow twitched at the mention of it. She didn't know how could he know, but she assumed with Dorothea, certain subjects were simply too obvious. “Tell me, Godwin, do you trust her instincts?”

Glenys took a sip, giving herself time to think. She trusted Eilhart with her life, but her instincts were faulty sometimes. More importantly, she didn't know why Nugent cared about that.

“I do, sir.”

“She can be an impetuous woman.”

“Well, she is, sir, but she is also kind and clever, so while she may be a bit of a handful at times, she is a good agent.” Godwin said and he nodded, content. “You doubted we could steal a couple of files, she got 25 out of 30 and no blood was shed.”

“Yet.” Nugent said with a grin, and Godwin shook her head.

“Unless she is planning on shooting her own contact, I doubt this will escalate further.” Godwin placed her cup on the table.

“True, we can't argue with results. But instead she promoted a Magisterium clerk, you said.”

“I'm not certain because she didn't say, but given he needs a promotion favour, I assume he must be at the very least, someone starting his career.” Godwin rested her hands on her legs and Nugent glanced at her, patiently waiting. “Sir, why are you asking me all of these questions?”

He let out his breath. He then dropped his arms, trying to relax, his hands resting on his knees.

“Well, I want to offer you the position as Director of Oakley Street.” He said, solemnly. Godwin didn’t flinch, even though inside she was burning with questions and confusion and flattery. Her daemon swung his tail, swiftly.

“Sir, I’m flattered, but I don’t understand. That’s Thea’s biggest dream, to manage the agency and--”

“And she recommended you, before she left. Dorothea knows her strengths and her weaknesses, and her biggest dream is to see Oakley Street flourish and prevail.” He smiled. “Besides, having a woman as director will make her weep for a whole week, I’m certain.”

Godwin giggled, then she straightened herself. She didn’t think she could come up with so many excuses to divert from the subject; it didn’t make sense because being director was part of her goals, but until that moment, it was all but a wild dream. Something to aim for knowing well it might never happen, yet there she was and it seemed to be happening, yet she kept on finding reasons why it shouldn't be happening.

“But Adnan--”

“He’ll stay as my deputy director and, he’ll likely stay yours too, but he has no interest in managing the whole organisation. It’s a position of notoriety, and Adnan is a scholar. He also thinks being too high up would draw attention to his family and he’d like to keep them safe.” Nugent said and Godwin opened her mouth to interrupt him, but he raised his hand and she didn’t say anything. “This is but an offer. You do have a family too, no? A son and a husband? I wouldn’t ask you to endanger them either, which is why you’ll have time to think it over in your assignment in South America, and when you’re done there and back here, we’ll talk and you can tell me what you want.”

“That’s… that’s fair, I suppose.” She said, then poured more tea for herself. "But my family will still be there, when I come back."

“They will, but by then, I expect I can find new ways to ensure their safety and your stay with us. You _are_ my first choice, Godwin, which is why I’m giving you all the time to think about it.” He sighed. “This position requires sensibility as well as an iron will. You need to be able to detach yourself, to make difficult choices. You need to be able to deal with the fact that sometimes you send out agents that don’t come back.”

“I understand, sir. I am grateful, though I don't know what to say.”

"Don't say anything. Think it over. We'll talk when you're back."

They spent more time making small talk, then Godwin stood up and said her goodbyes and left. Despite everything and promising she would think about it, her immediate answer was to decline the offer. Nugent was right; it wasn’t polite to ask her to risk her family for the agency, but then again what life could she provide if not through her work? She struggled for freedom of speech and a world where the Magisterium did not control people’s lives through fear. She wanted her son to live a wholesome life, away from the clucthes of the CCD and their kin. And without her, Oakley Street had one less fighter.

“You should consider it.” Her daemon told her, once she got home.

She didn't say anything other than "maybe", but deep down she knew he was right. Nugent was giving her enough time to think every aspect of that choice, it would be a sin not to do it.


	6. unsatisfied sinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than usual, mostly because I chose not to split it, because the next event in the story goes back to London, so it was a different vibe, so I chose to just make one big chapter about things in Geneva. I do apologise for its length lmao  
>  **A quick disclaimer:** while I feel like I did explain this in the narrative, I want to just leave this here to make it clearer. Lyra's world is a bit outdated, but there is not much information on how much outdated it is. So while I suppose women would lvie through standards such as the ones in the early 1900s, I do think there was a certain divergence in opinions and I write accordingly, so people do have different views. In Evelyn's case, she comes from an extremely conservative household, so she repeats what she is told and she is told that women should be chaste at all costs. I'm explaining because this is something I plan to tackle as the story evolves and the closer we get to Lyra's recent years, I want to explore these views more and how they change in the world.

_in fear everything lives_ , _impermanence makes  
the edges of things burn  
brighter_.  
 **margaret atwood**

Marcel knocked on the door, once, twice, three times, but no one answered it.

“Perhaps she went for a walk, or she is asleep.” His daemon whispered, but he shook his head. The reception boy said she hadn’t left the room, as far as he knew, and he allowed Marcel up. Dorothea had instructed him to only ever talk to that one specific boy, so Marcel assumed she was bribing him for discretion. The idea amused him immensely.

He turned the doorknob, and the door opened, fully unlocked. He exchanged glances with his daemon, and they quietly entered the hotel room. It was clean and organised again, he noticed, the warm dusk sunlight still bathing the furniture and the curtains, leaving the whole room in a golden tone. It was oddly quiet, and the fact the door was unlocked did not help settle his uneasiness. He called her name, but no one replied.

“This is odd.” His daemon whispered again, perched on his shoulder. He walked into the bedroom suite, where the bed was messy, sheets spread everywhere. One of Dorothea’s heels was on the balcony, and the other was by the bed. Marcel glanced quickly over the bed, and saw one of the pillows had subtle bloodstains, small enough not to worry him much, but still worrisome. He called her name again, and yet again there was no reply.

“I hear her daemon.” His own daemon said, flying in the direction of what Marcel knew was the bathroom. As he got close, he heard the distinctive chirp of the robin, fast and desperate and melancholic, as if all he was feeling was pure distress. The door was open, and Marcel crossed only to find the bathroom lights turned on and the robin, alone, flying around the bathroom, chirping.

The image of the daemon alone sent a shiver down his spine for a moment, very quick. Astraeus landed on the border of the bathtub, singing in melancholia, and then Marcel saw the distorted image of Dorothea, underwater, completely submerged except for her knees who stood out of the water as the bathtub was small. For a second, Marcel felt his heartbeat change to a faster pace, and then a moment later his rational thinking told him she was not dead. How could she be, when her daemon was still there? The owl landed beside Astraeus, but he pulled away, jumping a few centimeters back. 

“Should I be concerned?” Marcel asked the robin, who turned to face with most scowling expression he could produce.

“No.”

“Does she do this often?”

“Yes. Cold water helps her keep her senses sharp.” Astraeus turned to look at his counterpart; Marcel saw that she had one of her hands over her eyes. The robin turned to face him again, defiant, and Marcel raised an eyebrow. “Her medicine is very strong.”

“How long has she been in there?” Marcel pushed the towels atop a nearby stool, then pulled it so he could sit beside the bathtub. He took his jacket off and put it over the sink. The owl tried to approach the robin again, but he evaded her, flying to the other side of the tub. _He feels vulnerable when he is alone_ , Marcel took note of that. _He should feel vulnerable, he is a meek bird._

“Half an hour, she can hold her breath for two, three minutes, so she emerges, then goes back again.” Astraeus watched her with so much pain that Marcel found it difficult to understand, at least for a while. “She just dived again, she will be up soon.”

They watched her in silence, Marcel morbidly tempted to put his hand in the water and touch her, scare her, but the moment he moved his hand in her direction, the robin chirped menacingly, or as threatening as he could sound. Marcel put his hand away; as small as Astraeus was, sometimes daemons attacked humans directly and he had no doubt those sharp claws could do a lot of damage to his face, if the daemon felt threatened enough to attack him.

“You are afraid she won’t come up, one day, aren’t you?” Marcel turned to the robin, who scowled. “We heard you. You are terrified and she strikes me as something detached enough to end her own life.”

“Mind your business.” The daemon said.

Dorothea got up, her hands grasping as the borders of the bathtub, her soaked hair all over her face until she brushed it back, away from her eyes. She was panting, breathless, dizzy; she saw Marcel, but he had a feeling she took a while longer to acknowledge his presence. She was pale, he noted, and her eyes were slightly out of focus, as if she was drugged. Both daemons shook their feathers, because once the lady emerged, she threw water everywhere, some sprinkling on Marcel’s pants, but he paid no attention to it. He was too busy watching her, as she examined the room, heavy breathing, completely out of herself.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face, and that seemed to have brought her back from wherever she was, because she smacked his hand away from her. He laughed, heartily, and she laid back on the tub, relaxed, staring at him with a blank expression.

“Are you a _lunatique_?” He asked and she scoffed. This was two days after the last time he had been there with her, but she still had some dark bruises on her legs and her torso.

“Lunatic.” She corrected his pronounciation in the most patronising way she could find.

“Same thing.” He rolled his eyes and she chuckled, genuinely amused.

“It’s definitely not. Why are you here?” Her eyes were on him, but he thought she was having a hard time focusing. He took her wrist and checked her pulse, all she did was raise an eyebrow. Her heartbeat was quite slow; he dropped her hand back into its place at the border of the tub. “Morphine does that to me.”

“Why are you on morphine?”

Dorothea rolled her eyes and sighed.

“During the Great Flood in London, I was shot, in my shoulder. It was a bad wound, it impaired my arm movement, but that was unacceptable considering what I do. So, after looking everywhere, I found in Nippon a doctor who was studying an experimental procedure.” She rubbed the shoulder while talking, then glared at her daemon, who had now approached Marcel’s daemon. “It worked, but I still feel pain every now and again, if, for example, my shoulder gets slammed against a wall because _someone_ wants to play rough.”

He grinned, but more importantly, he noticed how she had a different posture now. More defiant, less meek and fragile, aristocratic and full of herself, fully naked in front of him but not even the slightest sign of being bothered by it, not even a hint of blushing. Marcel considered the possibility she might have been too high to notice anything, but immediately discarded it, because despite her erratic behaviour, she seemed very sure of what she was doing. He realised he couldn’t tell which one of her facets was the real Eilhart and which one was a mask, something she put on to deal with certain types of people. _I suppose that is kind of her thing, after all_ , he thought.

“You could have told me you’re wounded.” He said, and she shook her head.

“As if you would do anything differently.” He put his hand in the water, which was terribly cold, but Dorothea barely flinched when he brushed his fingers against her thigh. He felt at a loss, at least for a while; it was as if he was staring at that woman for the first time. She saw his slight confusion and assumed it was about the water. “The cold water helps me stay more awake, as the morphine makes me extremely dizzy. It’s wearing off though, I’ll be fine in a couple of hours and hopefully in no pain.”

“There was blood in your pillows.”

“Nosebleed. It happens sometimes, doctor says it might be stress.” Her eyes darted in his direction and he felt, oddly, the uncomfortable desire to look away, but resisted. She had a hint of laughter in her lips. “Why are you here, Marcel? I told you to only visit me during the night.”

He straightened himself in his chair, rolling his sleeves up to his elbow, before leaning on his own knee with his elbow and staring her down.

“It is almost night, but yes, I had to come because I have to ask you something. Chevalier. He was transferred, to the Court of Common Order of all places.” He watched with disdain as she took a comb nearby and started combing her hair. “I assume this was your doing.”

“Indeed. He was a major obstacle to your ascension, he had to go. I just chose a smoother path.”

“I had plans for him, once I got the promotion.” He took her chin in his hand, adjusting the angle of her face so she would look at him. Last time he did that, her eyes were speckled with fear and apprehension, but this time she chuckled and her eyes flickered with something he couldn’t quite name. He let her go.

“Too bad. As long as Chevalier worked there, you would never get promoted.” Marcel felt the urge to slap her, when she turned her attention to her fingernails, barely acknowledging his frown. A quick glance to the end of the bathtub, and he saw their daemons having a fast-paced, whispered discussion. “If you need him for your schemes--”

“They’re not schemes.” He hissed but she simply raised her eyebrows, not impressed.

“--just make him an offer, though, I don’t think he likes you very much. I can’t blame him, of course. Even I find it hard to like you sometimes.”

Marcel ignored her remark with a sigh.

“If you had fired him, I could stand a chance with an offer, but the Court pays well, better than I could afford to pay him to have him back.”

“I was going to get him fired, but I did some research. He comes from a modest household, his father left the family when he was a teenager, he has four siblings he helps provide for, one of them is physically ill. His mother is a baker, they live across the city, which is why he is always early for work. He wakes up very early.” Marcel watched her stern expression, as her eyes glanced over him. Now that she was dizzy, she wasn’t very subtle, so he noticed as her eyes darted up and down, to his hands, his arms, his face. If he didn’t know her, he would have taken that as flirting and lusting, but he knew she was profiling him, measuring his physical weaknesses, watching for any reactions he had to any of her teasing words or offensive acts. “He needs the money badly, and he is a hard-working man, I’ll give him that. So I suggested to Auguste that maybe if he went to the Court he could atone for his sins, maybe give up on the habit, and still provide for his family, no harm, no foul.”

“You felt _bad_ for him?” He said in a scornful way. “In his conception, your place is at home raising children and you still felt bad for him? How pathetic.”

“He’s an idiot, but I’m not a monster. I won’t have a whole family starving just to give you a promotion, or just to teach him a lesson.” She sprinkled water on his face, and he cursed in French, wiping his cheek. “Only you would consider a kind gesture something pathetic.”

“I didn’t think you had a soft spot for Magisterium employees.” Marcel mocked and the corner of her lips twisted in a disdainful smile.

“I fucked _you_ , so I wouldn’t say I’m very picky after all.”

Marcel hummed, a sort of laughter sound. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for what he wanted to say, but he kept her hanging for a while, hoping the awkward silence would make her at least feel unease, but it didn’t or at least she didn't let it show through her face. She held his glance back, one of her hands softly twirling the water in the bathtub. _Eerie_ was never a word he would have thought to use to describe her, but that was exactly what she looked like at the moment.

 _Where do you end and where does the mask begin?_ He thought, entertained. So far, this had been the most fun he had since they met, not that he would have ever told her that. _Marisa would know the real Eilhart_ , he considered, but he didn’t believe that. Marisa clearly underestimated Dorothea; she was honest, for sure, under the right circumstances, but definitely not dimwitted.

“So, tell me, how did you get him to be transferred?” He asked, and she sighed, looking bored. “You mentioned _sins_.”

“I had photograms of him going to a brothel.” She smirked. “Like most men, he has very basic needs and Auguste is a pious man, he couldn’t have his assistant frequenting what he referred to as _a house of sin._ ”

“Auguste has a mistress, Dorothea. That could have easily backfired.”

“I know! Hypocrisy truly is the Magisterium’s greatest flaw, I suppose.” She laughed and he shook his head. “At any rate, now that Chevalier is gone and that I shamed Binaud on his mistress business, even if indirectly, he will see you under a very good light.”

Marcel examined her face, not even the slightest hint of uncertainty stamped on it, and that confused him. She noticed that, and smiled, like a hungry wolf.

“You seem distraught.” She said.

“You’re not being as pleasant and gullible as before. It puzzles me, that is all.”

“I thought you would prefer that I am _honest_ with you.” She laughed, but Marcel rolled his eyes.

“You’re not being honest. This isn’t you, Dorothea.”

Dorothea laughed heartily and shook her head. He waited, patiently, for her next move.

“Oh please, this is as honest as I can get. Don’t be like that, just because you don't enjoy my straightforwardness.” She said, and he shook his head in disapproval. She sighed. “If you would rather see me gullible and malleable, I can do that for you, you do have the files I need after all and I need you happy and pleased, but I feel you’ll be bored very soon with my delightful, flavourless side.”

“Worse thing than a concealed spy, Eilhart, is a spy hiding in plain sight.” He said, his voice low and cool, his eyes darting to every corner of her face, searching any reaction. She blinked, unflinching and he felt a cold sensation in his stomach, a sense of failure or something worse.

“Good luck proving it, Marcel.” She tilted her head.

Marcel didn’t know what else to do but laugh at that silly woman’s gall. He expected her to have some nerve, but this was entirely something else.

“I do have enough influence to try that, you should be more careful.”

At first, she didn’t move, watching him with inquisitive eyes. For once in that day, she seemed to ponder what he was saying, actually granting weight to his words. She looked a little less dizzy, so he assumed the morphine effects was finally fading, but she still had the same imposing posture, confident and fearless and amused by his every word. Dorothea, then, smiled slowly and reached for his hand, her cold skin against his warm hand making him shiver slightly. She put his fingers around her own neck, less cold than her hands, and gently squeezed it. Any other men they both knew would have been flustered by her deviant glance and smile and gesture, but Marcel was aware she knew he wouldn’t.

“If you’re going to threaten me, you might as well choke me and make it all the while more interesting.” She said, with a smile, and while he was amused by that, he recoiled with a certain look of distaste in his face. “Don’t be a prude. Geneva is boring me.”

“You’re English, how can you not be bored?”

She laughed, and he watched as she tied her damp hair in a bun, as it was beginning to dry. He took a glimpse at his watch, to make sure he wouldn’t be late for his appointment.

“Everyone speaks French here, the food is not very good. You’re my sole company since I’ve arrived, other than Evelyn, that is. But she’s barely more than a child, and very quiet, so I don’t really have meaningful conversations with her.” Dorothea sighed and he grinned.

“I doubt her mother likes when you’re around.”

“She sure as hell doesn’t let me talk to Evelyn alone, which means we all sit awkwardly for tea.” She scoffed, then made a poor imitation of Madame Binaud's voice. “Why is your dress that short? Your cleavage is too big! Oh no, it's too small this time!” She rolled her eyes, much to his delight. “That woman is a monster! All she does is complain and complain--”

Marcel took her hand while she was talking and planted a kiss in her wrist, which took her by surprise, she even dropped her sentence halfway. He smiled, finally feeling like he had any control over the situation again.

“How many suitors did Madame Binaud offer you, so far?” He mocked, and Dorothea pulled her hand away from him, slightly disheveled after what he had done.

“Three. One of them so old he could be my grandfather.” He watched as she rubbed her eyes, water dripping from her hands, through her cheeks, like a weeping statue. “Could you please fetch a towel for me? Thank you!” She patted the soft towel against her face, before she stood up, rolled herself in it. Marcel’s eyes glittered with malice, as he stood up as well, to stare in her eyes and she seemed to feel the weight of his gaze, because she blushed a little, her feet still in the water. “She’s relentless and the whole conversation is pointless. I’ve made it clear I shall not marry, hundreds of times.”

“People expect respectable women to marry, you must be aware of that.” He smirked when she shook her head in disapproval.

“It’s not 1910, Marcel. Women are free to do as they will. Besides, I doubt there are any men out there who could put me on a leash.”

“I could.” He said, in a mocking tone and she narrowed her eyes.

“Oh please, darling, you’re good in bed, but you can’t make miracles.” She patted his cheek in an irritating, patronising way, and walked past him, her daemon following her back to the bedroom. Marcel wanted to grab her and hold her, but he let her go with nothing more than a scornful glance. “Do you intend to stay tonight?” She asked from the other room, and he followed her back there, taking his jacket with him.

It was almost entirely dark outside now, so she turned on the lights as she rummaged her things looking for clothes.

“I can’t. I have a business dinner tonight.” He waited for a reaction from her, but all she did was drop her towel, as she found a blouse and a skirt to wear. She put on her skirt, and turned to face him then, only half dressed, with a winning smile. Marcel wanted to sigh, but he held back. It was what she wanted after all.

“With Binaud, I assume. Well, good luck to you.” She finished buttoning her shirt and letting her hair loose. “If you play your part well, you might end up promoted at the end of this evening.”

“You can’t possibly know that.” Her self-assuredness was starting to irritate him.

“Why else would he invite you for dinner?” She took a step in his direction, Marcel raised his chin, her stupid winning smile taunting him but he chose not to react. He realised she wanted him to react, do anything, so instead he did nothing but stare. “Trust me, he is at the very least discussing the promotion with you. He needs someone to replace him, you just go there and tell him all the lies he want to hear.”

“I don't have to lie.” He watched as she approached him, her daemon perched on her shoulder, looking fresh and almost deviant. He realised cheerfulness didn't suit her very much; Marcel thought she was prettier when she felt miserable, like she did at the party. Melancholia suited her far too well.

“Tell him what you've done Saturday to me, then.” She jested, and when he just blinked, she moved closer, looking more serious. “You lie to him already, pretending to be religious. Yes, _pretending_. I know you are not, but he cannot know that, can he?”

“I am aware of that, Dorothea.” He watched as she put her hands on his chest.

Marcel was a meticulous man, the first thing he noticed about her when they met were her flaws. How her eyebrows were slightly crooked, how her mouth had laugh marks slightly beginning to show, as well as in her eyes. He had noticed she favoured her left arm, which now he knew was because she had her right shoulder shot and the wound forced her to adapt, even if it just slightly. When she had walked into Binaud’s living room, he looked her up and down, her shoulders slightly slouched, her dress a little unaligned, one of her nails chipped. Behind the curtain of imperfections he saw, Marcel concluded she was attractive enough in her own, rustic way, with a frown that favoured her more than a smile would. More importantly, he realised she was very good at concealing herself under different layers of behaviour. “Any more useful advice?”

“Don't look too much at Evelyn, or he might suggest a marriage, he is conservative enough for that.” She didn't properly leaned in, just a little bit, enough for him to notice that she wanted him to lean as well, but she had her fun for a while, so he decided to leave her hanging for now. “Can't you come here after the dinner?”

“I'm flattered by your attention, but unlike you I have a job, and I have to wake up early to get to it tomorrow.”

She dusted his shoulder, one hand grasping at his shirt.

“I _have_ a job, I am a scholar.” She said, a wrinkle between her eyebrows. He laughed.

“A scholar with a stagnate doctorate.”

“Unlike you, I sometimes have to prioritise things in my life and the files are more important to me than my doctorate, at the moment.” She got close enough that their legs were brushing against each other.

They stayed in silence for a while. He knew she was being clingy because she wanted him to give her more files, but the idea she was infatuated with him was too amusing to brush away. He checked his watch again and sighed, looking back at her. Dorothea smelled nice, and he would have preferred to stay and banter with her than to go to Binaud and spend an entire evening enduring his false piety. A man who would preach about modesty and chastity to his daughter and others, whose faith was as solid as stone; the same man who sent his son to be tortured back into a fitting shape, a man who had an affair every month. It disgusted Marcel, but he had to endure it if he wanted the job.

“I can come by Friday night.” He told her, with a sigh.

“Good. Bring me ten files this time.” She said, and she took a step away from him, her hands on her hips.

“Too many.” He shook his head; the problem of indulging her was that she grew bold every time he did it.

“I can't stay in Geneva forever, Marcel, you can't just give me one at a time!”

“Five.”

“Seven.” She said, smiling and he smiled too because she was just that annoying, enough to make him empathise. “And a bottle of wine. Don’t even bother coming otherwise.”

He took a minute to consider, then sighed.

“Very well.” He made his way to the door.

“Bring something sweeter this time!” She rushed him out. “Last one you brought was bloody bitter!”

“Bitterness suits you.” Marcel said, and they looked at each other by the door, before he said goodbye.

Dorothea sighed with a certain relief as he disappeared in the elevator, leaving her alone. She realised she had hoped for a kiss, but so had he, which is why he had left her hanging. _Well, that one is on me,_ she thought, _I taunted him too much._

“Couldn't you have acted a little less like a floozy?” Astraeus mocked her. “You're letting your guard down around him.”

“I wasn’t being a floozy!" She said, sitting on her bed, watching the sky outside, starless. “It doesn't matter, he's bringing more files. We should focus on that.”

Astraeus agreed. “But seven isn't enough.”

“No, but it's a start. And the sooner he gets the job he wants, the sooner we will have more files.”

“Or the sooner he won't have to deal with us anymore.” Astraeus's voice had an ominous tone. He flew to sit on her knee and she gave him an uncertain glance. He wasn't entirely wrong.

“True, but we cannot worry about that now.” She sighed. “Did you learn something?”

“Yes.” That was the first good news she had had in awhile. Dorothea allowed herself to relax. “He has a sister. She doesn't seem to live here in Geneva, from what I understand she is a bit of a renegade.”

“Do you have a name for her?”

“No. His daemon wouldn't tell me.” Astraeus said. “I think this is a sore subject to him, you should tread carefully.”

“Well, I will be careful. You did a good job.” She told him, and he came to her shoulder, his head brushing amorously against her cheek. It was if they had never fought at all. “Now, I think it's time we follow him around, to see what he is up to.”

***

Dorothea did follow Marcel for the next two weeks, at first, careful and quiet, keeping a large distance from him. She expected him to suspect something, he was clever and they didn’t really trust each other, so for the first days she noticed how he would often look over his shoulder, make random stops at cafés, forcing her to lurk for long periods. She also couldn’t follow him all the time, so there were gaps in her work, because she needed to have tea with Marcy and Evelyn, or further converse with Binaud or ignore Nugent’s phone calls or even then, go to the university or library, to a shop or anywhere, because she was a tourist and she had to behave like one.

As she predicted, Binaud had indeed given Marcel the offer of a promotion. He had told her on that Friday he promised to come, how the offer was made clear and simple, and how his reply to it was that he need to consider. She felt outraged, until Marcel explained that one shouldn’t be too eager to seize opportunities.

“If he thinks I’m too power-hungry he might reconsider. False modesty is the best tool when one wants to climb the ranks.” He told her, as they sat across each other in her balcony.

They never talked in bed, that was their unspoken rule, a rule that she had created herself to prevent mixing things. That was, of course, stupid, because things were already mixed up but Dorothea was a skilled liar, especially when she needed to lie to herself. So, whenever they wanted to talk, they sat across each other in the balcony, with whatever liquor they had within reach, and just talked. He knew whatever he told her, if she deemed important or relevant, she would report back to Oakley Street, which is why he was careful enough to tell all about the politics of anyone he considered useless, a rival or expendable.

After that Friday night, she assumed that the promotion in sight had left him in a very good mood, because he started to visit her more often and bring files in pairs. Dorothea also assumed that he suspected she was following him, because after staying up all night fucking him or talking politics, she had a hard time watching where he went in the morning and she thought that was his intention with the frequent visits after all.

Marcel’s life was, much to her surprise, incredibly dull. Despite her efforts to shadow him every day, he never did anything suspicious or incriminating. In the morning, sometimes, he’d stop by a bakery and buy something to eat before getting to work; he had lunch in a fancy restaurant nearby his work building, where she learned, after bribing a waiter, that he had a specific meal and wine for every day of the week. He was particular about his tastes, he had his suits tailor-made, his Magisterium pins were also handmade, and for each day of the week, he used a different one, and they were all sorted with a different precious stone. Dorothea knew a woman like him, so detail-oriented it bordered on obsession, but she was a nice woman, an assistant in the library of St. Sophia’s, and she loved organising the books by colours, names and genres. With the woman, Dorothea was always careful to replace the books where she got them, it was the kindest thing to do, but with Marcel she had a pleasure to dishevel everything he wanted so desperately to keep perfect.

They saw each other in public, one day, while she was taking Evelyn out for lunch. As they often did when they saw each other, Dorothea greeted him like she would an acquaintance, his eyes flickering with a mischievous glow. Evelyn greeted him too, but quickly found an excuse to leave them alone at the table, as she was uncomfortable in his presence.

“She thinks you're scary.” Dorothea told him, and they chatted awhile. She was wearing a relaxed dress that afternoon, with a small necklace that was slightly crooked on her neck. Marcel couldn't help it, she realised, and he barely noticed what he was doing, when he touched her neck to align the necklace and its pendant. She was standing while talking to him, at an acceptable distance, and all he did was brush his fingers against her neck, quickly, setting the necklace straight. Then he pulled his hand away as if she was made of fire.

His eyes darted everywhere, Dorothea could have laughed if she wasn't worried someone saw it, especially Evelyn, but no one seemed to have noticed and the restaurant was empty enough. He said goodbye and left, careful enough not to run. When she was walking Evelyn home, however, she heard the girl's quiet voice.

“Monsieur Delamare touched your neck, Dorothea!” She looked confused and too childish for a fifteen year old. Dorothea pitied her enormously. “Maman says--”

She sat Evelyn at a bench, putting her hair behind her ear.

“Monsieur Delamare has, well, he has a little quirkiness. He can't help but realign things that he deems messy. It's a brain issue, of a sort.” Evelyn looked at her, marvelled. Dorothea nearly laughed; she had practically said Marcel had brain damage. “He meant no harm!”

“But Maman says a man shouldn't touch a woman like that, or at all, not unless they're married.” Evelyn's eyes were wide, curious. Her daemon sat patiently beside her.

Dorothea took a deep breath. _This is tricky,_ she thought. She didn't want to say the wrong thing. Evelyn was naive, raised by a strict, conservative mother. If Dorothea told her it was okay to be touched by any man, Evelyn could let it happen next time some boy talked to her, which could end up badly. _Maybe if I emphasise that only if a woman wants to be touched,_ she thought, but Astraeus chirped in protest. If she did that, she would have to explain why she wanted to be touched by Marcel and that would end up in a trickier conversation. Worst of all, if she reinforced her mother's silly concepts, she would be going against her own morals which was bad. All those thoughts ran through her mind in a manner of seconds.

“Tell her a secret.”Astraeus whispered in her ear, so Dorothea smiled and Evelyn smiled too. “She’ll love a secret with you.”

“Your Maman is a bit extreme.” Evelyn nodded. “She's used to old social rules. Would you like to know a secret?”

“Yes, I would!” Her eyes glittered with excitement. A girl like her, isolated from everything modern, stuck in a loveless home, would weep at the idea of sharing a secret with a woman like Dorothea.

“You cannot tell your Maman nor anyone else, or I could get in trouble.”

“I won't, I promise you!”

“Monsieur Delamare is secretly courting me.”

Evelyn was mesmerised, giggling like a proper teenager would. She promised countless times not to tell and according to Dorothea's thinking, she hadn't done any damage. Courting implied consent and decorum, so she doubted Evelyn would get in trouble - or even herself.

After that afternoon, she realised Marcel couldn't really help himself. He disapproved of the secret she shared with a teenager, putting both of them at risk of being found out, and Dorothea noticed that his quirkiness was a sore subjected. She tested his patience one night when she mocked his incessant desire to perfectly align her hands and her hair and their limbs together. He took great offense, leaving her immediately and not talking to her for three days. She had to follow him around and pester him until he gave in. Like Asriel often did with her, she learned that some people can be won by exhaustion, if one knows to be persistent enough.

Other than his dull mornings, Marcel only visited a gentlemen's club on Tuesdays and Fridays, the only place she could not follow him. They only had male members and the only women allowed there were companions or prostitutes. She would have risked her luck impersonating a prostitute to try and get in, if she hadn't also seen Pierre and Auguste Binaud walking there. They could easily recognise her, so all she did while Marcel visited the place was sit on the opposite sidewalk, where a park faced the building. She waited for him to leave, unless of course they had set up to meet in the same evening, in which case she impatiently waited for him at her hotel room.

One of the evenings they didn't plan to meet, she followed him there and stood watch from her bench in the park. She saw him get in and prepared herself for three hours of sitting in the cold, with a book about magnetism. That is until he approached her while she was smoking.

“I didn't take you for a smoker.”

She was startled at first, dropping her cigarette, then cursing. He sat beside her, at a respectable distance, though she turned to face him, her arm leaning on the bench, her fingers brushing against the nape of his neck. A quick glance to the entrance of the club and Dorothea saw they were alone.

“Marisa gave me the habit when I was in college. Not my favourite vice, to be fair.” She raised her eyebrow when he offered her a new cigarette. She light it up with his lighter, then let out a lot of smoke.

“Did she, now?” He sounded amused, which was unsurprising. “Why are you following me? Don’t you trust me?”

She laughed.

“Of course not, but it’s not why I’m following you. I’m curious, I know very little about you and it intrigues me.”

Marcel tilted his head in her direction; there was a source of light nearby, a lamp, but it was far enough that they were cast in a half-light and for that, Eilhart was grateful. It was a difficult enough to deal with him without being fully able to see his face.

“What is your assessment of my life so far?”

“You need a hobby.” She swallowed another portion of smoke when he laughed, quietly. Their daemons were close, whispering, as usual. Dorothea didn’t know how could Astraeus talk so much with the owl. “And you need friends. Must be lonely, going from home to work then back to home.”

“I have friends.” He gestured at the club, and she shook her head. “Our hobby is to use poppy and spill secrets.”

“They aren’t your friends, you don’t confide in them, I doubt you even trust them.” She said, and Marcel chuckled like she expected he would. Everything was amusing to him, he infuriated her. “They are, at best, your political colleagues.”

“Why does that bother you so much?” His snappish response made her frown. "I can't be all yours all the time."

She scoffed, and slapped his arm, before leaning closer to him.

“All I want to know is how can you live like this?” She sighed, then leaned back against the bench, her cigarette burning as she stared the empty park. “No one can live such a life, Marcel. Doesn't it make you tired?”

“Not really.”

“Doubtful.” She scorned and sensed as he moved, a little uneasy, beside her. He looked over his shoulder, but no one was outside the club, no one that could see them together. “Even I have people I talk to, or seek help when I'm in trouble.” She added.

He sighed and light up a cigarette for himself. She watched as he moved every muscle of his body to do so, ostentatious and excessive, and he rested against the bench as well, one hand holding the cigarette away, clumsily, as the other rested on his knee. He breathed out the smoke slowly, and Dorothea watched it, mesmerised. He turned his head to her, which brought her back to her sentences, so she looked away, blushing. She couldn't quite see the details of his face but she sensed the laughter on the corner of his lips.

“You want to ask me something.” He said, then he swallowed another batch of smoke and she held her breath, waiting. He was was good at reading her, she remarked; her only regret in their relationship was making it easy for him to see through her. Marcel cleared his throat. “About my sister.”

“It was a surprise, yes.” She admitted, feeling her skin burn with curiosity and anticipation. She touched the back of his neck, again, very lightly, only the tips of her fingers and he moved his head, to one way and the other, stretching as her cold fingers sent spasms through his warm skin. “You don't strike me as a sibling kind of man.” He turned his eyes to her and raised an eyebrow, inquisitive. “Too selfish, I think.”

“We were raised like this, you wouldn't understand.” He said, then put her hands away from him, setting then in her lap. She grasped at his wrist, but he shook her away. “We're in public, I thought you wanted us to be discreet.”

“Does it make a difference?” She sighed, then scratched her forehead, a worn down. The discretion she wanted was mostly for herself, Eilhart knew. She didn't want anyone at Oakley Street to find who she had been with; she didn't think she could withstand the shame, even though she knew most of them would laugh the whole thing off. _They laugh, of course, but then they whisper behind my back as if I’m a traitor or worse_ , she thought bitterly. “I'm sorry, you're right. I'm just tired of this city. Lonely, I suppose.”

“I visit you as much as I can.” He stated and she laughed. “I hope you understand I need to sleep, too.”

“I know, yet that is about what I know of you.” She watched with very little interested, as their daemons flew around each other. “The amount of time we spend together, one might think I would have learnt your sister's name.”

“Very smooth, Eilhart.” He dropped his cigarette on the floor and they watched it burn in silence. Dorothea's cigarette was also gone by now. Marcel looked at her and found her staring, expectantly. He sighed, almost sounding defeated, as if he even knew the concept of that word. “She's my twin. She left to study in England when she was eighteen, and ended up staying there. I write to her, sometimes.”

“That's very young to leave home. You didn't think to go with her?”

“She wanted a life as a scholar, I had other plans. Besides, she left to stay away from our mother.” He shook his head and light up another cigarette. “She was always thirsting for independence and flair, Marisa, she craved those things as if her life depended on them; and it's not like our home was a delightful French cafe, she was clever and got away as fast as she could.”

Dorothea looked at him for a long moment, and he looked back, unimpressed, unblinkingly, waiting for her reaction. Ultimately, when she said something, he didn't seem very satisfied; she assumed he expected another reaction. She expected it herself, but the moment Marcel said it, it was as if a curtain had been lifted from him and she could now see him clearly, or as clearly as she could in that half-light. All that familiar feeling, a faint nostalgia she felt when they were together, it all made sense now. _Honest but dimwitted,_ she thought amused, recalling Marcel's contact who had referred to her that way. _Of course she said that._

“You knew.” He added, and she scoffed.

“Goodness, no. Had I known I wouldn't have slept with you!” She crossed her arms over her chest, and Marcel threw an inquisitive glance at her that made her grin. “If Asriel ever learns about _this,_ ” she quickly gestured between the two of them, while ignoring his scowling. “He will annoy me to the rest of my life. You make a funny face of distaste when you hear his name, I should have known. I assumed you were jealous of me, turns out you were just mad because of Marisa.”

“He ruined her life.” Marcel spat; his voice was still cool and calm, but there was a hint of distaste in it. Few things seemed to have that effect on him.

“Marisa ruined her _own_ life, Marcel, when she chose that Asriel was what she wanted. He ruined his by pursuing her.” Eilhart sighed; it was like going down the memory lane all over again. _Does this conversation ever stop?_ She doubted it, not when Lyra existed to forever bind Marisa and Asriel; Dorothea even counted on that to play out her green journal bluff. She expected him to be tempted again and again. “And she brought her life back from the ashes just as well. You can't blame him.”

Marcel groaned, so she took that as an opportunity to change the subject of the conversation.

“Does anyone else know about you and Marisa being related?” She asked, her hand sliding back to the nape of his neck. He laughed as he put her hand away again.

“It's not a secret, and it's more widely known here than in England, but we're not often associated.” Dorothea knew she was looking at him like an eager child, waiting for a present, but she thought it was hard to disguise her interest in the matter. “She changed her name so we wouldn’t be linked all the time; she didn’t want my name to come up every time she got an ounce of influence. Lucky me, when she decided to be indecent in England, few people thought of talking to me about it.”

That was the most interesting thing she had learned during her stay in Geneva, and it changed nothing except the state of her boredom. _This is too much luck, something is bound to go wrong_ , she thought to herself and Astraeus chirped in agreement when he felt the thought too; the owl glanced at him, curious, intrigued, but he quickly turned his attention back at her and she dismissed what happened as Dorothea and Astraeus's daydreaming habit.

“She never mentioned you.”

“I don’t expect her to. I never mention her either, except for now, but you didn’t leave me with a choice.” He grinned.

“You can always not talk, Marcel. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re talking at all, secretive as you are.”

“True, but surprising as it may be, I enjoy our… _verbal altercations_. Meeting a spy was quite something.” The way he said it made her laugh. “You have far more substance than any of the people in there, that much I can tell you.” He pointed at the club’s building, then raised an eyebrow; she mimicked him, waiting for his inquiry. She could almost savour it, as well as the lie she thought about telling him as a reply. “Are you trying to infiltrate the club?”

“Why would I do that?” Her grin was large and almost indecent.

“To _spy_ on me.”

She chuckled, heartily, her hand resting lazily on his arm.

“My, every time you say that word you make it sound so immoral, I love it!” He stood up, then offered a hand to help her up as well; as they both stood there, staring at each other, she felt the air between them filled with a spark of something. Dorothea brushed the thought away, and they both glimpsed at the club’s entrance, but no one was there. “Yes, I was interested in listening to your conversation and theirs, but sadly I was not blessed with being a man nor a prostitute. I considered flirting with some fool to go in there, but I thought you might get jealous with the idea.”

Marcel rolled his eyes while she laughed, spilling the truth, except for the last part. She didn’t chose to flirt with someone else because she recoiled at the very idea of someone else's hands on her. Astraeus was right, she was letting her guard down; at her core, she felt a shiver that would’ve physically made her tremble, but she used all her willpower to control it. If he saw that, she would be lost and vulnerable and she didn’t need that, she was already fucked up enough as it was. _One day this will backfire beautifully, I’m certain of it_ , she thought every time she thought of him or even saw him. But this was neither past nor future, but the present, and she lived in the present and the present consisted of them, standing close enough to each other that she could feel how warm he was. She hated every second of that.

“I cannot invite you in, you know that.” He said, and she sighed, exhausted. “They’d know we’ve been seeing each other.”

“Nevermind that, how did you know I was spying on you?” She straightened her coat around herself as he carefully checked his watch. “I was very careful, I don’t think you saw me.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are.”

“Just tell me, Marcel, it’s getting cold and I’m getting mad.”

“Pierre Binaud saw you.” He had a winning smile she loathed, but they both sneered when they heard Pierre's name as they mutually despised him. "He had so many indecent names for you, last Tuesday, standing around here. I didn't think he knew so many dirty words but your presence unleashed something. Whore was the most friendly word he used.”

“Yeah, he detests me and the feeling is mutual. Whore, you said?” She bit her lip, pondering. “Maybe he thought that was I lurking, hoping to find a lover and an easy ticket in, not that he needs a reason to insult me.”

She laughed because that was likely what had happened, even though she had decided not to try any route into the club.

“Did he offend me in front of Auguste?” She asked, amused.

“Yes, that's when he came to your defense. He asked me whether you had _charmed_ me. I denied, of course, and he said you are a good-hearted woman, but a bit of a temptress.”

“Ha, unbelievable! In France, people used to call me a prude!” She said.

“You are definitely not a prude, but it worries me that he treats you like that. Why aren't you worried, though?” Marcel crossed his arms. “If he thinks we're together--”

“You're not paying attention to the details, Marcel. Right now his impression of us is that I’m the one trying to derail you from the good path.” She rested a hand on his arm, as he still had it crossed over his chest. “But you need to accept his offer soon, in case he starts to get suspicious.”

She leaned in and kissed him and Marcel uncrossed his arms and let her linger for a while, before pushing her away. She looked back the club and saw a man she recognised as Chevalier, hailing a cab for another man, slightly older, who she recognised as the President of the Court of Common Order. They didn’t seem to notice her and Marcel, but she took a step back anyway.

“If you ever want to get inside the club, that is the man to flirt with.” Marcel said, amused, as they watched the cab leave and disappear with Chevalier and his boss down the dark street.

“Oh, I know him. He used to be at my father’s events, back when I was a child, one of those Magisterium overlords that are driven by anything but faith. A dangerous man, all in all.” Dorothea turned to look at Marcel, who had his eyebrows raised, slightly curious. “I label everyone who belonged to my father’s inner circle as dangerous. Chevalier’s boss? He is a politician, not a zealot. No one in cahoots with my dear old dad could ever be called decent and that man, oh my, he is one of the worst.”

“I hear he is very fond of young women.” Marcel mocked and she scoffed.

“True, that’s the image he _sells_ but his passion is art restoration. These young women he parades around? They’re his art muses and such and a decoy.” She offered him a devious smile. “From what I hear, what he is actually fond of is robust men, like Chevalier.”

Marcel raised an eyebrow, as she expected. The president of the Court of Common Order was also responsible for strongly advocating for morality and proper traditions and she expected Marcel to know that. She wanted him to savour the irony.

“As we discussed before,” she added. “hypocrisy truly is the Magisterium’s greatest flaw. I hope you enjoy your life of pretense, I find it amusing how you so easily merge into it.”

“It takes a lifetime of practice and a level of detachment you are not familiar with, Dorothea.” He hissed through a grin, which she knew, was not unusual. “Tell me, you felt so bad that Chevalier would lose his job, but how do you intend to deal with things after you and your friends destroy the Magisterium?” He said in a disdainful way, she didn’t appreciate it all but she tried hard to conceal her expression of distaste. That was what he wanted after all, to upset her. “There will be so many jobless people.”

“You and I both know the Magisterium will never be destroyed.” She said, and he tilted his head, amused. Dorothea knew he wanted her to say that out loud, a sadistic little thought that haunted her at night. Astraeus went back to her shoulder, heavy breathing, as if something the owl said had upset him enormously. She even tried to make amends, by bowing to him, but he chirped and hid behind Dorothea’s hair where he couldn’t be seen. “Not the religious groups, at any rate. But the militia groups, these we can stop and diminish and discourage. They are but tools of fear and terror, and as any other tools, they can be broken. That alone should weaken the Magisterium, without its claws it cannot do as much harm as it does now. I believe the Magisterium will lose powers in the next decades.”

He chuckled, his owl perched on his shoulder as he delighted himself with whatever she had said. Eilhart felt small and a little childish, a little silly; she felt as if he knew something she didn’t or like she used to feel when she was a child and everyone laughed at her silly ideas of grandeur and idealism.

“You _clearly_ disagree.” She scowled and he shook his head, still laughing.

“I do. The CCD and other enforcer groups are not the core of the Church, dogma is. Yes, you and your little country could do without the CCD, but some countries rely on them for security and justice. What would they do without their main figure of authority?” He took a step closer, breathing down her face. “And then we have the dogmatic groups, the ones who truly hold the Church and society together. They tell us how to behave on an upbringing level, we are raised within their ideals and morals. Do you think that happens because we force them? No. It happens because some people like to obey, just as some people like to command. And those who obey the Magisterium, most of the time, do so quite contently. It gives them purpose, routine, peace of mind.”

“That’s too simplistic.” She barked at him, and he took her by her waist and turned her around, his back to the club so anyone who left could only see him, but not her. He didn’t pull her closer but his hands were still on her.

“You want to find depth in everything, such is the way of scholars, boring as they are.”

“I don’t want to command and I don’t want to obey either. Your theory is flawed.” She scoffed and he very nearly rolled his eyes.

“You’d love to command. Yes, you would! Stop lying to yourself. You care too much about other people’s submissiveness, it’s why you refuse to order them about.” He said when she opened her mouth to retort. “You could flourish in the Magisterium, shape it to your liking. Yes, you would have to play the modest woman and pretend you’re a believer, but that isn’t very different than what you already do. The girly dresses, the dimwitted, cheerful behaviour, even your temptress act, it’s all that: an act. You hide behind those things to pursue your work with your agency, but I know you are nothing like that. Marisa says you’re an average scholar, but I don’t believe it. You hold back, for whatever reason. If your silly morals didn’t stop you from joining the Holy Church’s work, rival or ally, you would have been formidable.”

She thought it was funny; he had never complimented her before, except everything he just said was quite offensive. She took his hands from her hips, but he seized her wrists and pulled her closer.

“My silly morals is what makes me who I am.” She hissed. “I’d rather die with a decrepit agency, doing a good thing, than help the Magisterium persevere. You’re all a bunch of self-serving pricks, who fight over influence while the CCD kills people in basements!”

He dug his fingers in her hair, grasping tightly, and she let out a gasp. He turned her face to look at her, with a smile that sent shivers down her spine. She clutched as his shirt.

“You like to think you’re better than us, but you are not. You can sit at a table with your colleagues and preach about the work of evil we do, and you can hide behind your frilly dresses, your good manners and educated speech, but you are a murderer, a thief, _scum_.” He kissed her and softened his grasp on her hair. “You are as despicable as I am.”

She didn’t know what to say, he had certainly caught her off her guard, so she just stared at him, panting, like a scorned creature. He stepped away, watching her disheveling with delight, the only time messiness gave him utter pleasure. Call her a whore and she would laugh it off, but call her a hypocrite and not an atom in her body would go without protesting, in sheer distaste.

“I’m not a saint.” She said, breathless. “But I’m not like you at all.”

“Of course not, you care too much about pointless things to be anything like me.” He scoffed. “For example, you’ll go back to your room tonight and sit in your bed and think about how I read you so well and blame it on your lack of discretion. It’ll drive you crazy, until I arrive with more files and you’ll be filled with a sense of purpose. Except we both know you’re not sleeping with me because of the files, as you so often remind me, you could just take them. You enjoy this, you're infatuated. It makes you feel pure and decadent at the same time, because you shouldn’t be doing it yet here we are. You roll in bed with me, then you tell your friend you are ashamed, embarrassed, helpless, but I know that’s another façade of yours. Doing this, it doesn’t make you feel like you’re doing something bad and wrong, it makes you feel like you belong.”

She slapped him hard on his cheek, too furious to reply, too astonished to say anything. She thought he might walk away this time, but he didn’t. All Marcel did was brush his fingers against his cheek, grinning at her like a wild animal waiting for his prey.

“Your reasons might be noble, but spy work is dirty business. They recruit people like you, resilient in their beliefs, then they twist you into what you have become, Lady Eilhart.” He reached out to her, but she pushed his hands away. “To answer your inquiry from before, no, I don’t believe the Magisterium will grow weak. In fact, I know it will get stronger. The more desperate people get, the more they seek solace and refuge and the guiding hand of anything remotely powerful and reasonable. The more the enforcers cause terror, more we can offer support through dogma and religion. Your agency will either become obsolete or be dismantled, as well as anything like you elsewhere in the world. You cannot fight what people so willingly accept.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged then took a step closer. This time she didn’t move away. “But that is unlikely.” Marcel ran his fingers through her cheeks, her lips; she wanted to smack him away but she didn’t have the resolve to do so. “You feel such guilt about such silly things. Guilt is stupid, Dorothea. Let it go. You’re a logical woman, use your logical skills. What is the point of feeling guilty about things that do not matter?”

She shook her head, in denial, which made him sigh.

“You’ll get tired of this, someday. Idealism can only take you so far.”

“You think you understand me so well.” She scoffed, her eyes slightly glowing from the tears of rage she was holding back. “You spent a month with me and you think you can tell everything there is to know about me. You think passive people _like_ to be commanded and you think having these people on a leash is the appropriate response to passiveness. Everything you say is twisted, I'd call you perverted but I'm afraid you might take it as a compliment!”

“No, you think the reason I know these private things that bother you is because we have a physical relationship. It’s not true. I do know you well because it takes one to know one.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You want to prove me wrong, then do as I say. Go back to your room, as I know you came here to try and have me give you more files. You’re expecting one of your associates soon, I imagine. You wouldn’t be silly enough to mail these things, so you want to give them as many files as you can.”

She stood silent for a moment, pondering, her heart pounding. Marcel’s lips brushing against her earlobe, warm and inviting and utterly inappropriate, as her daemon whispered her instructions, suggestions, advice in her other ear, still hiding in her hair. She wouldn’t have felt so naked if he had undressed her there and then, but somehow this was worse and it made her restless.

“Yes.” She managed to whisper. She’d have to ask Bud to be careful while taking the files, now that she knew Marcel was aware of her plans. She couldn’t possibly tell how, but she wasn’t about to take any chances.

“Good. I’ll give you two more files. So go back, wait for me and in two hours I’ll be there. I don’t have to get in there to give you these files, I can just slip them under the door. Lock that door and keep me out, since you think you’re - how do you say it? oh yes - screwing me for the files.” He kissed her cheek and backed away. “You say I don’t understand you, well that’s not true. I know I make you _feel_ understood, and usually that is all I need when I want something. But I do understand you, which I find hilarious, because you’re the last person in this world that I had hoped to find any common ground. We fare so well with each other because we do have a lot in common, which right now you loathe because you think I am immoral while you stand on your high horse, thinking that every time we fuck it’s like a sin in the making. You are not pure, Eilhart. You’re as depraved and wicked as I am, and you have two murders to your list of bad deeds while I have only the sin of being ruthless. But you want to prove me wrong, you lock that door and keep me out.”

She looked at him, puzzled, riled up, expectantly, not a bone in her body ignoring the dizziness she was feeling. _This is backfiring much sooner than I expected._

“You say I don’t make you feel like you belong amongst the wicked, the corrupt and the overlords, than don’t let me in. Lust is the most basic of all sins, so it should be easy to make this right, all you have to do is lock that door." He turned his back on her, walking towards the club again, leaving her alone in the empty park. "We both know you won’t.” **  
**


	7. noble deeds, noble hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though not canon, I like the idea that Asriel truly had a brother; in this case, I used Erik, nonlegend's character from _Lyra's Uncle_ fic because I enjoy the whole concept she created for him.  
> On the worldbuilding, I made France's government to be aligned with the Magisterium based on a La Belle Sauvage passage that said the alethiometrists in Paris belonging to a Pro-Magisterium faction; that, united to Bonneville's inclination to make a deal with them, as well as Olivier being French and also involved with Magisterium politics, made me think it wouldn't be unreasonable for France's current government to be more welcoming to the Magisterium. I also wanted to explore governments that were in favour of their rule, for different reasons, so it all just suited me, really lol

_how can one disguise the simple fact that  
_ _the entire world is somewhat sad and lonely?_  
 **clarice lispector**

Asriel watched as Eilhart paced in her living room, her luggage dropped by the door since her arrival, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she mumbled, ecstatic, about how things worked better than expected. He honestly couldn’t see how, but then again, sometimes Dorothea just didn’t make any sense.

“We’re finally at an advantage point!” She said, and her daemon flew around her head. “Marisa is gonna use the journal to further her agenda, which means she will spread false information everywhere!”

“That will simply create chaos.” Asriel remarked and she frowned, as her good humour was a rarity and he seemed intent on ruining it for her.

He was still angry that she had decided to use him to make her plan work. “I knew she would try to steal it from you, it was more convincing if you didn’t know the journal was forged.” Her explanation had been annoying, even more so than being tricked by her, but Asriel couldn’t help but think her plan was incredibly clever. Only Eilhart would come up with something so stupid and still make it work.

“Chaos can be very useful, as you well know.” She retorted, and cheerfully accepted the drink Thorold offered her. She took a long sip before continuing her speech. “Don’t be mad, you know I didn’t mean to offend you. I meant to get to Marisa, and my goodness, I finally did!”

“She will figure out that the journal is forged, she is clever.” He said, bitterly, and Dorothea tilted her head in his direction, her eyebrows arched in a confused expression. “What will you do, then? Flee to the South?”

“Must you ruin my good mood?” She shook her head, biting her lip as she considered whether or not to tell him what she knew. As usual, she chose to speak up. “By the time she realises it, it will be too late. Once all these Magisterium high-ranking officers start freaking out about the intel she might have on them, we’ll be able to properly get to them by blackmailing them by the dozen.” She tapped her fingers against her desk, then leaned against it, crossing her arms over her chest. “The comotion created will be enough for us to turn who can be turned and remove who needs to be removed. Her journal only had big names, we’re not aiming for those. We want the smaller ones, the ones that actually make things work.”

“You have a lot of confidence for someone relying on people’s stupidity.” He retorted and she sighed. He admired her resolve, but she was too impractical. A plan like that, so filled with gaps, so many opportunities for things to go wrong… He thought it was bold of her to even try it.

“Well, it’s a lesson I’ve learned through the years: stupid people are usually the ones in charge.” She glanced at him, expecting a reaction, but he only raised his eyes, indifferent. “You can’t seriously be mad at me! You’re the one who opened the door for her!”

He didn’t say or do anything, except allow his eyes to have a hint of the laughter he was holding back as he watched Dorothea place her glass on the desk, looking at him, puzzled and upset.

“For fuck’s sake, say something!”

“You’re a lying bitch.”

“Oh, don’t get sentimental on me, now!” She slammed her hand on the desk, startling her own daemon, who was talking to Stelmaria from the armchair opposite Asriel. He flew up and down, returning to his place and continuing his conversation with Asriel’s daemon. Dorothea was raging on. “I spent nearly two months in Geneva, hiding and sneaking and putting up with the most insufferable man I have ever met and somehow you’re making him seem likable!”

He smiled, a winning grin that made her sigh, her daemon chirping furiously at Stelmaria now, who merely watched the small bird’s tantrum with a lazy interest.

“Well, that explains the bruises.” He mumbled, amused, and she turned her back, crossing her arms over her chest, before he could see her blushing. He walked up to her and seized her arms; she struggled to let him see the wrists, but he managed to pull her arms apart from each other. One of them had a dark bruise, recent, and the other had just a faint purple stain. She was wearing trousers, so he couldn’t see the ones he assumed she had in her legs, but her blouse was open enough that he could see the beginning of a dark bruise on her collarbone that she had tried hard to hide behind her hair. “What have you done? Sold your dignity for those files?”

He shoved her arms away with an expression of disgust that made her scowl, much to his amusement. If he didn’t know her any better, Asriel almost considered she might have been ashamed.

“This has nothing to do with the files.”

“Liar.”

“Asshole.” She spat.

They looked at each other, waiting, for a moment, her scorned glance as if he was daring turn her upside down for the truth, something that seemed to offend her immensely, but then they burst out laughing.

“You really ought to stop getting into that sort of trouble, Eilhart.” Asriel went back to his chair; Stelmaria and Astraeus had made peace and he now laid on her head, whispering to her all the secrets Asriel would likely find boring, later, when Stelmaria shared them. “You’re gonna end up like Marisa.”

Eilhart laughed, heartily, to his surprise. Despite looking exhausted, he thought she looked less sad than usual, or perhaps she just seemed edgier. She wiped away a tear of laughter.

“My, don’t ever say that again.” She stretched her neck this way, then that way. “I can’t believe I survived such a long time in Geneva. That place creeps me out.”

“It’s weird how they seem so normal with all those CCD troops walking around the city.”

“I know! They’re so comfortable with it, it’s terrifying.” She yawned. “Tell me, when are you leaving? Not soon, I hope.”

“Very soon. Tomorrow at dawn, as quickly as I can, but I wanted to talk to you about Lyra, before I left.” Asriel watched as she rubbed her eyes, then she smiled at him, tired, a little upset. “You do look like you need some rest, though.”

“It can wait. What is it? Did something happen?”

“No, not quite. I’m leaving for Lapland, and I think I’ll be gone for a while.” He said, unsure of what to say next, a novelty for sure. Dorothea didn’t pressure him though, instead patiently waiting for whatever he meant to say. “I want you to take Lyra as your ward.”

“I-- I’m sorry?”

Asriel sighed, joining his fingertips as he spoke. “Scholastic Sanctuary protects Lyra, of course, but her stay at Jordan fails to teach her certain things. The Master mentioned, in my last visit, that he thinks Lyra could benefit from a strong, female presence--”

“Groundbreaking insight, really.” Her amused tone made him smirk.

“-- and I thought perhaps that you would be suitable for that role.”

“Oh my, I sincerely disagree.” Her sharp and determined tone made Asriel let out the air in his lungs with an audible groan. _This is going to be a tough one._

“Why? You are, for all that I know, a _feminine_ presence. Compared to Lyra, you’re incredibly ladylike, so she can’t tell the difference.” Eilhart side-eyed him, an eyebrow lifted in suspicion. “I think she could benefit from spending time with you. You’re a practical woman, so you can pound some civility into her while teaching her something useful. She’s half a savage now, and as much as I would love to see Marisa squealing at the sight of her daughter being partially a street urchin, I think it isn’t fair to the girl.”

“You have plans for her, don’t you?”

“Not really. While she gets some education at Jordan, she’ll need to attend somewhere else, like St. Sophia’s for example, but until that happens, I want you to visit her.”

“On your behalf, no doubt.”

“Yes, on my behalf _and_ on yours. Talk to her, teach her some basic nonsense. Tell her you know how to use a gun, she’s gonna love it.”

Eilhart sighed.

“I cannot parent your child, Asriel.”

“I just want you to teach her the… the _women_ things she needs to know, because I cannot do it.” He rubbed his eyes, feeling a little tired. He didn't expect much resistance from Eilhart, but he clearly had been wrong. “Make sure she is properly taught on these civil matters. She needs guidance like this, guidance I can’t give.”

“She is too young for all that female talk, for fuck's sake!” Eilhart turned to him, looking quite imposing. “What she needs is a _father_ and you're leaving again, to bloody Lapland, no less!”

“I have work to do and she doesn't have a father.” He scowled back. “We’ve discussed this before, hundreds of times, in fact.”

“I've begged you many times before and I’ll beg again, tell her the bloody truth!” Her voice faltered a little. “What good can come of all this silly hiding and lying? She needs to know!”

“And then what? What do you suggest I tell her about her mother?” The way he said it made Dorothea stagger, she didn't know where to put her hands or what to say. “Because she will ask me about her mother, oh she will! She's an irritating child, she won't stop until she gets an answer. What do I do then, lie, again? Suppose I tell her the truth, what do I do when Lyra asks to meet Marisa, or even worse, when she chooses Marisa over staying at the college?”

“You don’t know that she will. For all that we know, she could hate Marisa.”

“You know, as well as I do, that things are not quite that simple.” Asriel groaned, and Dorothea shook her head. “Marisa has the virtue of being likable, despicable as she is; she could charm Lyra out of Jordan if she could. It’s why I forbid them to let her anywhere near the girl. It’s why you still endures her presence; you like her too much, even though she goes against everything you deem noble.”

Dorothea looked away, a little ashamed; he stood up, put his hands on her arms and urged her to look at him.

“You care enough that you keep annoying me about it, which is why I trust you to take good care of the child. So, do that; take care of her for me.”

She raised her wrists to him as he let her go, a disdainful grin on her lips.

“Is this the kind of woman you want tutoring your daughter?” She asked, pointing at the bruises. He laughed.

“Maybe don't teach her your taste in men.”

She laughed, bitterly, then sat at the armchair opposite the one he was sitting on. She rested her legs against herself, her daemon now perched on one of her knees. Asriel knew she would agree, she always agreed in the end; he almost felt bad about it, but it quickly passed. He wasn’t taking advantage, she was just being her righteous self. Such was the ordeal of kind people, they could never afford to deny favours.

“You know, I always had trouble saying no to you.” She said, using her hand to conceal another yawn. A small tear came down her eye, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. “I was grateful, I _am_ grateful, for all that you have done for me. You're a shitty friend in many ways, but a good one in others. I expect you know that.”

“I do. It's why I ask you for difficult things.”

She scoffed. “Well, your daughter is safe enough at Jordan, under Scholastic Sanctuary--”

“For how long, do you think?”

The question caught her by surprise, because she stared at him for a good minute before saying anything else.

“What do you mean?” She stuttered. “It's an ancient law, impregnable; as long as she is made a scholar, she can forever rely on it.”

“Do you seriously believe the Magisterium will let a feeble English law stand in their way?”

“They have, so far. Why would that change now?”

Asriel let out his breath. She was insufferable.

“Because until now, they have been obsessed with something else. _Dust._ They haven't forgotten Lyra, however. Marisa doesn’t want her for nothing, there is a reason and she shares it with _them_. When they turn their eyes on Lyra, they will do anything they can to get her.”

“And if it comes to that, I will be there to look out for her. You needn't ask me that, you know. But making her my ward, bringing her here: that would force her to be involved with Oakley Street, not to mention the high society scum I deal with on a daily basis, including her mother.” Dorothea pressed her lips, firmly, before adding: “I can't promise you that I'll keep her safe, or that I can teach her the civility you want me to, but I can promise you I'll try. Things are escalating now, and I am unsure of what comes next for us and our friends, but as long as I am able, I will make sure to try and keep your daughter safe.”

“Thank you, Eilhart.”

She nodded, resting against the armchair. “You do know that you cannot hide from her forever, don’t you?” She said, and she opened one eye to check what his reaction was. He frowned, that was all; she seemed a little pleased with herself. “That is what your doing after all, going to the North all the time. You’re hiding from her.”

“Nonsense. The work I do is important.”

“You know, my heart broke every time my father chose his work over me.” She said, with the hint of a smile on her lips, as she closed her open eye and made herself comfortable on her chair. Asriel took her own coat from the chair nearby and dropped it on her, clumsily. She mumbled her appreciation.

“That's a dirty move, even from you, Eilhart.”

“It's the truth. He was a terrible man, yes, who worked for the Magisterium, but he was my father all the same. And he always chose the Magisterium, always. It broke my heart every time. He would have left me penniless, stuck at a convent, all because I had the unfortunate fate of being a woman. He'd rather celebrate those scornful priests and delegates than allow me to have a life.”

“Don't compare me to him.”

“I'm not, I'm just telling you what is it like to be raised by a father who always chose something else over me. I might have gotten over it, but I haven't, not really.” She took a deep breath, her robin comfortably lying amongst her hair. Asriel thought she had finally slept, when she mumbled again. “I go to sleep, sometimes, especially after a particularly difficult evening, and I think about why he couldn't choose me. Why he chose them, the worst of the worst, but not me? And I was lucky, you know? I had my uncle who always looked after my best interests, and I had you too, you always took care of me. I think of Julian, who died alone in an alley, because his father chose dogma over his life and it hurts me to think he was alone.”

“We find the replacements for something that we lost or that we simply lack, but the truth is replacements cannot really fill the void. They just make the void _bearable_ I had you and my uncle and my work to bear the loneliness my father left, and it worked, for a while. You took me under your care because the hollowness Erik left when he died was unbearable; we were closely the same age, him and me? All you saw was a shattered girl that reminded you of your little brother, and you didn't even think twice before meddling in my affairs.” Her smile was soft and lost, as she was dozing off, which she was, of course. “So, don't hesitate to meddle with Lyra's, she certainly needs it more than I do now; she’s all alone, Asriel.”

She took a deep breath, and let it out, a noisy sigh.

“I'm exhausted, so shoo, leave me be, please.”

“You certainly remind me of Erik, irritating as you are.”

“Fuck off.”

“At least he was eloquent.”

She threw the nearest thing she found - a book - at him, missing by a long shot. She meant well, he knew that; she always meant well, but meanings had only so much worth in that harsh life they - he, mostly - lived. Asriel chuckled, feeling comfortable, before he turned around and left to finish his packing. He was due to leave in the morning and not even the most eloquent of speeches could have made him stay.

*******

Malcolm tried to relax, resting against the comfortable chair in Lord Nugent’s living room. He failed, of course, his arms crossed against his chest in the only gesture he could think of to brush away his shyness. At 20, he was already tall and strongly built, which meant he was a man easy to notice, except his simple-featured face and his humble posture granted him a certain air of non-importance that suited him just fine.

He had the feeling everyone in the room with him was noticing him, but he knew, deep down, that was not true. They were in five, four of them were men dressed in dark suits, brown and grey and black, and the fifth participant was a woman, dressed in a red coat and red dress so vibrant, Malcolm at first was blindsided when he saw her.

Lord Nugent was telling them about his plans for what would happen next, now that Lady Eilhart had returned from Geneva. Malcolm watched him congratulate her, after she handed him the last remaining files, but all she did was nod, with a soft smile that was easily overwhelmed by whatever feelings she was feeling and whatever that was, it wasn’t good. Malcolm thought everything about her screamed immense delicacy, but then she glanced at him and he saw her stern, stoic gaze and he reconsidered, almost instantaneously. She smiled then, gentle and kind and cheerful and he smiled back, though quite unsure. That woman felt too many things in too little time, he felt like he was drunk just by staring at her.

“You have done a splendid work, Dorothea.” Nugent said, sitting back at his chair.

“You spent almost two months in Geneva.” Professor Papadimitriou said, with a witty smile that Malcolm thought was meant to be mean or close to that. “Quite the vacation.”

Dorothea smiled, a different smile than the one she gave Malcolm; it was sly, a little sassy, scornful. She took a sip from her glass, and Malcolm noticed a faint bruise in her wrist. _The diamond bracelet is meant to disguise the bruise,_ Asta thought to him, sitting comfortably in his lap in her cat form. He agreed; the sparkles almost had made him miss what he saw.

“Next time we need something extracted from the Consistorial Court, you can go yourself, George.” She said, in a gentle tone, despite her sour words. “Show me how it’s done.”

“No need to be nasty.” Papadimitriou said, his eyes darting between her and Nugent, who laughed. “I was simple implying it must have been difficult for you, being in that place for such a long time. All _alone._ ”

“There are worse places than a fancy hotel in Geneva, I think.” Said the fourth man with them, Bud Schlesinger, and Dorothea shook her head, but Malcolm saw she was snickering.

“Definitely.” Nugent said, but his eyes were back on the lady. “Tell me, do you think this matter is finally settled?”

“Well, my contact is still very much alive, if that is what you’re asking.” She sighed, her robin daemon perched on her shoulder, opening his wings every now and again to stretch. “And I cannot guarantee that he won’t try anything regarding the debt I owe him, but I’m the only person implicated on this, so I doubt it will affect Oakley Street if it comes to that.”

“Could you, let’s say, persuade him in the event he tries to blackmail you with this information?” Nugent said and Malcolm watched as they looked at each other, her eyebrow raised, as if they were having a silent conversation about a subject only they knew about.

Malcolm was beginning to feel like a child amongst these people. Bud and his cheerful eyes and friendly disposition; Papadimitriou, as scholarly as one can be, old and witty; Nugent, imposing and intelligent; and then the Lady, who was the youngest of them apart from Malcolm, yet with a good fifteen years of difference from him. Her confidence was intimidating.

“As skilled as I am, I can’t make miracles.” She said at last, and everyone sighed, including Malcolm. “But as far as I’m concerned, this matter is settled.”

“Well, then it’s settled. You have impressed me, again.” Nugent paged through one of the files, before adding: “Did you learn something about the CCD rumours we have been hearing?”

“Sadly, not much. It’s all very hush-hush, even for their standards, which is quite odd.” She finished her drink, and placed it on the coffee table. “I tried approaching some people there, but eventually I had to focus on my deal for the files.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t, one of our agents was arrested after asking too many questions back in Paris.” Papadimitriou said, with a grim expression on his face. Malcolm had heard of that story and it upset him immensely. It was like the CCD was growing bolder every day, while they couldn’t do anything short than what they already did, bound by rules and decency.

“I hear he is still in prison. Anthony, I believe was his name, no?” Malcolm said and Nugent nodded. “Are we leaving him there?”

“Unfortunately, he is a French citizen, so there isn’t much we can do. Legally, they have held a person of interest within their own laws.” Nugent intertwined his own fingers, looking between his guests with curiosity. Malcolm thought they looked like a funny bunch, with Lady Eilhart and her bright red dress being the cherry on top, almost literally. “Which is why I must ask you to try and not leave England while we’re dealing with this matter. Here we can protect you if they try to arrest you.”

“I suppose you’re gonna need me more often, then.” Bud said. “Being a diplomat gives me quite a reach.”

“Don’t push your luck, Bud.” Lady Eilhart warned him and he laughed.

“I’m touched by your affection, Dorothea, but since I have diplomatic immunity, we should use it to its fullest extent.” He turned to Nugent, eager eyes, but Malcolm was paying more attention to the lady, who scoffed. 

She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again, in the opposite direction, her arms resting on the armchair. He noticed another bruise on her ankle, this one slightly darker; he looked away, despite wanting to ask her what had happened. He didn’t know how to ask that without implying had been looking at her legs, in a non-malicious way at any rate, but that would have been hard to explain.

“Your diplomatic immunity only works if they try to legally arrest you. It won’t protect you from being bombed or shot in an assassination attempt and your successor may not be as friendly as you are.” She scorned and Bud looked at her with a wrinkle between his eyebrows, because he knew she had a point. They all did, which was why Nugent raised his hand to interrupt them.

“She’s right, Bud, and it's why I want you to stay in the country until we learn more about what is going on with the CCD. We might need you to investigate in a different country soon, and you’re our best option if it comes to that.”

“Wherever you need me.” Bud said, but Malcolm noticed his slight disappointed expression.

“It’s for the best, Bud.” Lady Eilhart mumbled.

“As for you, my dear lady, I have an important task.” Nugent said, then turned to Malcolm with his welcoming expression. “Malcolm has officially joined us last year, but given his studies, we still haven’t had the time to give him certain training and I was hoping you could do it.”

“Of course!” She said, pleasantly, and for a moment Malcolm was surprised, as Nugent had told him he expected Dorothea to protest. “Anything to keep me away from this investigation, eh?”

 _Too soon_ , Malcolm thought, repressing a grin. Nugent sighed and braced himself for an argument he was expecting. _She likes to wear people down by exhausting them with senseless arguments,_ Nugent had told him, _which is why one must hold on as much as one can._

“I want to keep you safe, and I think your skills would suit Malcolm. He wants to be a professor, so he needs to deal with all kinds of people.” Nugent said, but Dorothea scowled. “You know how to best behave in high society, you could teach him a few tricks on how to survive in that environment.”

“It doesn't have to be me, any rich prick in the agency could do that!” Lady Eilhart scorned. “I came back with those files for you, even when you didn’t think I could, so I can take care of our leads on the Oblation Board. Let me do it.”

“It’s far too dangerous--”

“ _Everything_ we do here is dangerous, in case you haven’t noticed yet.”

“Then you know why I must keep you safe. You fund us, immensely, and when you do field work, you always deliver more than expected--”

“All I'm hearing are reasons why I should be involved in this!” She leaned forward, her hands grasping at the armchair armrest. Malcolm felt a little uneasy, but Nugent barely flinched. _He is used to it_ , Malcolm thought. Papadimitriou watched the whole exchanged with a certain boredom that showed he too was used to it, and Bud had his arms crossed over his chests, his eyes darting up and down over Lady Eilhart, his owl daemon flinging her wings. He seemed upset, but Malcolm couldn't tell why.

“-- you are also reckless, and if they suspect you might be involved in any resistance activity, you could get caught or worse.” Nugent said, his voice slightly irritated, but he remained composed. “I know you don't like it, and you think I'm excluding you from the danger because you are a woman--”

“You are.” She interrupted him, casually. Nugent's daemon made a soft hissing noise, irritated.

“I am not. I'm excluding you because you are far more valuable to me as a Marchioness than as a field agent.” He raised an eyebrow, witty, and Malcolm thought he had expected to shock her, but she had an expression as unimpressed as one could be.

“Oh, I know. It's why I made sure that, in the event of my untimely and maybe desired death,” She glanced over Papadimitriou, who shook his head, then she turned back to Nugent, an unhappy smile on her face. “a portion of my fortune has been put aside, to be given to the agency.”

There was a moment of silence. Malcolm saw that Nugent was astonished by that, a little wide-eyed, and the corners of his mouth twisted just enough to emulate the ghost of a smile, a gesture of approval he did not want to give her. Lady Eilhart laid back against her armchair, and while she seemed to have won that argument, she didn't seem happy about it. Bud was no longer looking at her, but Papadimitriou watched everything with a grin, very pleased with the turn of events. Malcolm realised he liked the lady, even if she was refusing to train him so openly - he imagined it wasn't personal.

“Oh, you didn't know?” She snorted, disdainfully, her daemon perching his feathers this way and that. “I assumed you did, given your line of work.”

“Stop the nonsense and tell us what you planned.” Papadimitriou said. “Whatever amount of money - and I'm assuming it's a lot - will draw attention once it gets cashed in.”

She scoffed, looking at him with such contempt that Malcolm shivered a bit, Asta adjusting herself on his lap, but Papadimitriou wasn't even impressed. He was, however, a difficult man to impress, as most scholars tended to be, so that wasn't very surprising.

“The money is already split from my other assets and in the name of my younger cousin, Georgia. If something happens to me, or if they try to seize my assets, my uncle will make sure you get the money, it’s a good amount of cash to keep you functional for half a decade, maybe more if you're lucky and use the money wisely.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Do you really think I'd do anything to jeopardize your safety and secrecy? All I have ever done was protect the Office and all of us. It's a crime - no, no, it's a sin! - you want to keep me from helping you because you are too afraid to play your wildcard.”

Nugent sighed and drank from his glass, clearing his thirst before he spoke.

“You are right, my dear.”

“Damn right, I am!” She scratched her forehead delicately. “Here is what I propose we do: I will train Malcolm in whatever he needs training, while we go searching for more information in the Oblation Board. No, no, let me finish.” She raised her hand when Nugent opened his mouth to interrupt her. He held back, Malcolm thought he seemed entertained with the Lady’s speech. “The Oblation Board is supposedly headed by Marisa Coulter. As you well know, we are close, sort of. That gives me an advantage you cannot possibly ignore. So I’ll take Malcolm and we’ll investigate, carefully, as quietly as possible. Whatever the Board is, it can’t be good. You won’t let me help Anthony, it’s fine, I understand, but this you cannot stop me from doing. So, you either give me your blessing or brace yourself for what will come, because I will investigate this.”

Nugent stood in silence, watching her and she watched him back, with a smug expression. He finally sighed.

“Very well. You can do as you say, I won’t stop you; but you will report to us properly.”

Lady Eilhart nodded and rested against her chair, looking very pleased with herself. Her daemon jumped atop of her head, and chirped cheerfully.

“Are you sure Anthony can’t be helped?” Bud asked, suddenly, as Papadimitriou was pouring them more wine. “Maybe I could pull some strings, try to get him back to England.”

That question had been on Malcolm’s mind too, but he didn’t know how quite to voice it. Lucky for him, he wasn’t the only one concerned with poor Anthony. He didn’t know the man, but he knew Anthony went to Balliol College and that everyone back in Oxford was dreading his fate.

“The French Government is too aligned with the Magisterium for us to interfere.” Nugent explained. “I wish we could get him back, but even if we managed to drag him back to England, he would still be a wanted man.”

“It’s a risk, yes. But maybe as a scholar he could ask for scholastic sanctuary at Jordan.” Papadimitriou suggested, looking at Malcolm who nodded in agreement.

“We shouldn’t leave him there, alone.” Dorothea said, but she was examining one of her hands instead of looking at Nugent or anyone else. Malcolm noticed how her face had suddenly become more intense, her frown and distaste decorating her features, making her look like an ancient statue, severe and stoic. She looked prettier that way, he thought, unhappy and dissatisfied. “They’ll torture him. He’ll talk.”

“Give him some credit.” Malcolm said, instinctively, and she turned to look at him and smiled, kindly but also sad.

“It’s not that I think he has no backbone, but the CCD is ruthless. He’s just a student, he won’t last long and whatever he knows they will know, and once they have what they want, they won’t have a reason to keep Anthony alive.” She said, grimly. Then she turned to Lord Nugent, her jaw tense. Her daemon flew to speak to Nugent’s daemon, quietly. “I know a way to save him, though.”

Everyone’s attention was now on the pair of them, watching, expectantly, silently. Malcolm didn’t understand why Nugent wasn’t saying anything, but he noticed how his daemon was quickly whispering to Lady Eilhart’s robin, distressed, eager, fearful.

“If you let me, of course.” She added, sternly.

Malcolm thought that was amusingly strange, because just minutes before she was making demands, but now she was requesting permission. Nugent finally rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat.

“You’re playing with fire, Dorothea.” He said, then shrugged. “She is dangerous. Last I heard, she reported one of her own allies to the CCD because they tried to double cross her.”

“I can handle her, but I need you to agree with this. She has too much knowledge of us for me to engage without your consent.”

Nugent put his hands over his eyes, clearly thinking. Malcolm watched everyone in the room was holding their breath, including himself. Lady Eilhart was tense in her chair, her eyes darting up and down, waiting, eagerly, for Nugent’s reply. Her faint smirk told him she expected a positive answer, anyway.

“She’ll want something in return, she always does. It’s her trade, after all.”

“I have the perfect piece of information for her, and it’s all about the Magisterium.”

“Good. Pass it on to me.” Nugent said and Dorothea flinched, puzzled. “I’ll deal with her.”

“What? Why?”

“Last time you dealt with her, you almost got shipped off to Muscovy. Let me deal with it, just tell me what you want to trade with her.”

“It’s private.” She said. Nugent seemed hardly impressed.

“Very well, let’s wrap this meeting up so the Lady and I can have a _private_ conversation.”

They finished discussing logistics details, and Papadimitriou, as well as Malcolm, were to return to Oxford and Bud was supposed to lay low, in London, and play merely bureaucratic diplomat until they had new information. Then, after saying goodbye and telling Malcolm to wait at the entrance, Lady Eilhart locked herself with Lord Nugent in his study. Whatever they spoke of, no one heard of, because unlike their usual banter and arguments, this one was oddly silent.

Malcolm waited outside, taking in the fresh spring air that slowly turned warm and humid as summer closed in on the isle. He and Bud Schlesinger discussed the weather, as Bud leaned in against the handrail, smoking his cigarillo with a lazy casualness that Malcolm envied. He wished to feel as comfortable in his own skin, tall and strong and hard to not notice even though he had a certain forgetful disposition, as Bud did. He voiced that in an eloquent question that didn’t sound too childish. Asta praised him on that.

“You’re still young, Malcolm, life is messy at this stage, but you’ll be fine.” Bud said, taking a glimpse inside the house through the door they left slightly open. No one was coming yet. “Dorothea didn’t mean it, by the way. To make you feel unwelcome, she and Nugent just have been at odds lately. They have different opinions on what to prioritise.”

“They seem to like each other, though.”

“They do, he has a soft spot for her, he’s known her since she was just a girl pouring tea for his Oakley Street meetings at her uncle’s estate, so he is bound to be a little biased.” Bud threw his dying cigarillo away, then took away his coat, adjusting his collar; his owl daemon landed back on his shoulder as he was done. “Damn, it’s getting hot again. Nevermind, what do you make of Lady Eilhart, Malcolm?”

Malcolm smiled. He couldn’t help but think that was a trick question, except he knew Bud, and he was as straightforward as they come.

“Well, she lives up to her reputation.”

Bud laughed, heartily.

“Oh, that she does. I hear a lot of her behaviour is Lord Asriel’s fault, and she’s a wildcard, but you won’t find anyone as dedicated to our work than she is. I wonder what she and Nugent discussed, though.” He turned his head as they heard the sounds of footsteps coming their way, high heels stomping against the wooden floor. “Speak of the devil…”

Lady Eilhart came out the door in a way that Malcolm could only describe as a violent wave crashing onto whatever it found. She closed the door on her way out, her red outfit contrasting with the bleak, gray street and concrete, and she let out a heavy sigh. She extended her hand, her palm facing up, waiting for something that took the shape of a cigarillo, that Bud promptly dropped in her hand and offered his lighter to her. Malcolm observed them, carefully, and couldn’t help but notice how Bud’s eyes lingered on her, his daemon watching the woman and her delicate daemon; Asta reminded him, sitting beside him on the handrail, of the rumour they had heard about the two of them. Apparently, they had had a thing in the past, but Malcolm thought, with a certain amusement he thought was slightly mean, that Bud’s lingering glances and Lady Eilhart’s accidental indifference showed clearly that someone hadn’t moved on.

“Sorry for the way I talked back there, Malcolm.” The woman addressed him, a kind smile on her face. Smoke came out of her lips in an effortless gesture, as if she was smoking just because it was the automatic thing to do under stress. “It wasn’t about you, personally. I apologise for being rude.”

“It’s alright, my lady.”

She chuckled.

“You can call me Dorothea, Malcolm, or Eilhart. It’s not a problem.”

“I’ll try, _my lady_.” She laughed again.

“So, what did Nugent decide to do?” Bud asked, and Lady Eilhart sighed.

“Well, he’ll talk to Madame Laurent and trade my information for her help dropping the charges on Anthony, in France.” She took the cigarillo back to her lips, then let out a lot of smoke before going on again. “It won’t save him, not exactly, depending on how insistent the CCD is in getting information from him, but it will release and unjustify any attempt to arrest him again. So, I hope we can get him out and send him to some distant place, for a while, probably an exchange program so he can continue his studies.”

“That’s good!” Malcolm said, and the Lady nodded. “Maybe he could go to New Denmark or New France, some place where the Magisterium has a lot less pull. I heard New France has a great university program he could make use of.”

“That’s what I thought of too, it’s what I suggested to Nugent, anyway. But until Anthony is free, we can’t do anything else but to wait.” She straightened her coat and dress, then turn her eyes to Malcolm again. “I understand you need to go back to Oxford tonight.”

“I do, I have a paper due on Friday so I need to go back and finish it.” Malcolm said. “But I can be back by Friday night.”

“Good, good. I’ll take you to the train station then, I have a car waiting for me, and we can talk about what we’re gonna do this Friday night.” She started going down the stairs, with Malcolm following her, then stopped and turned back to look at Bud. “You coming, Bud?”

He straightened his hat on his head, his owl perched on his shoulder.

“No, I have business in town I need to take care of. But I’ll be seeing you this Friday. You too, Malcolm. Good day!”

They parted ways to different directions, Bud walking down the street, alone, while Malcolm got in the beautiful car Lady Eilhart had parked across the street and they made their way through London, to the train station.


	8. the forgotten boy

_I barely exist and if I exist_   
_it's with delicate caution_   
**clarice lispector**

“So, tell me,” Bud Schlesinger said to Dorothea, as they stood, side by side, leaning against her dark car, waiting for Malcolm at the Zeppelin Landing Zone in London. Bud’s shoulder brushed against hers, as their daemons were on the car’s roof, chitchatting as usual. “Who is he?”

“Huh, Mal-colm?” She muttered, confused; she didn't even bother looking at him, instead side-eyeing him, because all she needed was to feel the bump of his shoulder against hers to know what he meant. A breeze brushed her hair out of her face, inconveniently. She would have liked to hide, especially from his inquisitive gaze.

“No, not Malcolm. The man you were seeing in Geneva.” Bud said, and while she saw a glimpse of his smile, she felt the weight of his gaze, even though he hid well how he felt. He didn’t like that subject, that was obvious to her even before acknowledging he knew about it, but he was poking her into discussing it all the same because worse than knowing something, was not knowing anything at all. “The one that gave you those bruises.”

His fingers brushed against her arm, as he meant to seize her wrist, but she instinctively shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. It was an oddly cold evening, the sun slowly setting, but they still had enough of its light to illuminate their field of sight. She had hoped the bruises and marks would have disappeared by now, but the day she left Geneva, five days ago, she had seen Marcel one more time to fetch the last file.

They exchanged few words that day, not to her dismay given that any conversation with Marcel usually ended up in distress or worse, but he had made sure she had enough visible marks that would last at least a week and that someone observant enough would notice. She knew Malcolm had already, though he was too polite to ask her anything directly; Bud had with her, however, the intimacy needed to ask such a question. He was a gentleman, though, so he phrased it in a way that did not sound offensive, just mere curious.

“Does it matter?” She mumbled, trying not to let her mixed feelings about all her indiscretions in Geneva, to show up in her voice.

She had hoped that after returning to England, she wouldn't think of Marcel so much or at all, but so far, he had been at the center of every conversation she had. No one knew who he was, of course, she had made sure of that, except for Nugent, but that had been unavoidable. Not only he knew her too well, but Marcel was part of the crucial information she wanted to share with Madame Laurent in exchange for Anthony's freedom, so she had to tell Nugent about him. No details were required or demanded, as Nugent probably guessed a lot of it, and he seemed to have no intention in sharing her shameful secret with anyone else. _Of course he wouldn't tell them_ , she had thought later that evening, _it's leverage on me in case I ever go rogue._ Nugent was a practical man, so she took no offense on that. _It was better to be safe than sorry._

“It matters if he hurt you.” Bud said and she snickered.

“Nothing like that.”

“So, what's his name?”

She turned her face to him, a grimace on her lips. _He truly is persistent on getting his feelings hurt_ , she thought, a little bitter but also a little flattered. She brushed away those feelings, however, as she could almost hear Marcel mocking her vanity.

“I won’t tell you, Bud.”

“Why not?” His insistence was beginning to upset her, enough that her daemon flew to her shoulder, chirping softly as he felt her wrath begin to warm her skin.

“I don't want to. It's my private affair, it’s none of your business, it’s--”

“That means he is important!” Bud said, in a cheerful tone, but his daemon was now back on his shoulder as well, looking very angry. “Why else would you keep this a secret?”

“No, he is not, but even if he was, I wouldn't tell you.”

“I could just track him down and find out on my own, you know.” He said, with a cheeky grin that made her raise her eyebrows.

“Sure, do it. I'm not about to make it easy for you.”

He stuttered, blinking at her, slightly astonished. It wasn't the reaction he had expected, she was sure of it.

“Just-- just tell me who he is.”

“No. Drop it, Bud, I mean it.” She said, tiptoeing so she could see through the crowd that took the front sidewalk of the landing zone. “No good will come of this, believe me. There is Malcolm! Hey!”

She waved to the tall man walking out of the building, alongside other people; he saw them and made his way in their direction. Dorothea heard Bud sigh, but she didn't look at him; she didn’t want to face him after all that questioning. Astraeus flew down to greet Asta, Malcolm's daemon, then followed Dorothea as they all got in the car. Malcolm only had one suitcase which he took with him to the backseat. She had allowed Bud to drive them, especially because she still was tired after having dinner with her aristocrat friends in the previous evening. _I need to take my brantwijn easier_. She knew she should've started that ten years ago, though, as Astraeus constantly reminded her.

“How was your flight, Malcolm?” She asked as Bud started the car; she wanted to get rid of the tense mood around her and her New Dane companion, and she wanted Malcolm to feel welcome after her little tantrum at Nugent’s place. “Everything well? Did you have a good meal?”

“Yes, thank you for that, Lady Eilhart. It was all very good.” He said. She had paid for his traveling expenses so he would come in first class and have a good dinner, because they would be going straight to their place of interest. She smiled, looking at him through the mirror.

“My pleasure. Tell me, did you happen to see Dr. Relf these past days?”

“Oh, yes. I went by her house last night, to return a book. Just a moment--” He searched through the inner pockets of his tweed jacket. He took a piece of folded paper. “There you are! She sent you a message.”

“Oh, this should be good!” She said, chuckling. She had a very good idea of what it could say with her research so late as it was.

“ _‘Dear Dorothea, I hope this note finds you in good health,’_ ” Malcolm read the note. Bud turned right in a corner, where a pretty cafe stared down the street, but it was quickly left behind by them.

“Oh fuck, she’s gonna kill me.” Dorothea snorted.

“You barely heard the message!” Bud chastised her, laughing.

“Last time she began a note like that, I was lectured for a whole hour on why I should be more responsible.” She let out a sigh. “She wasn't wrong but it was painful to hear. Malcolm, please, continue.”

“ _‘I'd like for us to meet as soon as possible, so I can critique your article and give you the instructions for the writing of your thesis. Wish you all the best.’_ She sounds mad but she was laughing as she wrote it down, Lady Eilhart.” Malcolm said, with a grin, handing her the note. “I think you’re safe for now.”

“I forgot the bloody article, damn it!” She slammed her hand on the panel, startling her daemon. “I was supposed to finish it last month, but I got caught up in Geneva and I just couldn't do it.”

“Yeah, I wonder why you didn't have time.” Bud said, his sarcastic tone rubbing her off the wrong way, but Astraeus said to ignore him and so she did. She glanced at Malcolm over her shoulder.

“Thank you for delivering me that message, Malcolm. I might have to go back to Oxford very soon, after all. Hannah won’t forgive me if I don’t.”

The car stopped, parked across a corner that was across a pub, already bursting with people, lively and with an inviting appearance. Malcolm leaned in from his place in the backseat, resting his elbows in the seats' backrest. He gestured at the pub.

“That's it. That's the place your lead in Oxford told me about.” He said and Dorothea nodded.

Bud glanced at her, looking a bit concerned.

“Do you think we'll get in trouble here?” He asked.

She shook her head, Astraeus reassuring the owl. “I don't think so, doesn't look like an official place to me. I hope we get some information, though.”

“Maybe one of us should go in alone. Draw less attention that way, I think.” Malcolm suggested. Dorothea had the slight impression he wanted to go himself and she couldn't blame him, the tension between her and Bud was likely making him uncomfortable. It sure as hell was contributing to her headache.

“Yes, I’ll go.” Bud said, getting out of the car before Malcolm could move. “You two watch to see if anyone tries to leave suspiciously or anything like that. Be back in a minute.”

They watched, in silence, as Bud made his way across the streets and into the pub; a streak of warm light glowed on the sidewalk as he opened the door in, quickly vanishing as it closed. Night was already upon them, a dark and red sky replacing the last remnants of sunlight, a clear sign that it would rain very soon. Dorothea opened the window so the crisp air would get in, she was feeling a bit suffocated.

“Have you heard any rumours about me recently, Malcolm?” She asked, and he stuttered for a moment, probably surprised with the nature of her question. He was quick to adapt though, because he cleared his throat and denied.

“Only that you and Bud used to be an item.”

She found herself snickering. She was thinking more of someone mentioning her dalliance with Marcel, but it was much better that the only thing about her personal life still was solely about Bud. She wished more than anything to talk to Godwin, ask for advice as she would have plenty to give, but she had left for South America before Dorothea got back to London, and she couldn’t write all the things she wanted to say.

“Yeah, that was a long time ago. I was young and fresh in the world, and he was nice, perhaps too nice.” She let the thought linger and Malcolm, polite as always, waited patiently. She knew he wouldn't pry, but she also knew very much so, that he would ponder that and take his own conclusions. He was skilled at thinking, she remarked. “He’s a good man, a family man. So, it wasn’t that surprising when he proposed. _Twice_ . I had to turn him down, _twice._ ”

“That’s... tough.” He made a funny face.

“More to him than to me, I'm certain. I can’t believe people still talk about us, though. It was a long time ago.”

“Oh, they don’t.” Malcolm said; she looked over her shoulder and saw he was a little embarrassed. Astraeus was talking to Asta, seated at the top of her head rest. “I just saw you two and I thought of asking about it.”

“Nosy.” She said, amused. “I like it. You’ll do well with us, Malcolm.”

She turned on the radio, but lowered the volume enough that it was just a hum as they watched the pub. Every now and again, a car passed by or someone left the pub, too drunk or not drunk enough, but nothing extraordinary happened. They discussed his studies, and whatever was happening in Oxford. She thought he was very intelligent, academically as well as the cleverness one would find amongst less posh people, the common sense required to survive in the streets or to make a living outside an inheritance. He was also incredibly observant, quick to take in details that even she overlooked sometimes.

“Do you really think that woman you mentioned - Madame Laurent, yes - do you think she can really help Anthony?” Malcolm asked; they had been sitting there for half an hour or close to that, and Bud was yet to return.

She wasn’t worried, not yet, because nothing out of the ordinary had happened yet, but she kept her guard up, just in case. She had her gun in her purse, and she sensed Astraeus restlessness. Eilhart brushed her skirt as she heard Malcolm, wishing she had worn her trousers instead of a casual skirt. _Well, at least my shoes are comfortable enough, in case we need to run._

“I think she has the tools for that, yes. She’s very influential over her government, she knows the right people and how to properly deal with them.” She sighed. “Nugent went to see her yesterday, she took in the information I gave him very well. It’s valuable enough, but it’s a long term deal, so I wasn’t sure how she would take it. Apparently, she said she would see what she could do, as Nugent told me, but I think that is a positive answer.”

“How are we moving Anthony to some place else?”

“No idea. Nugent doesn’t want me anywhere near anything related to that woman, but I assume he will have either Bud or anyone else we know of to take care of the matter.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry Malcolm, we’re doing everything we can to help Anthony out of that mess.”

“Did Madame Laurent really nearly ship you out to Muscovy?” He asked, amused.

She laughed, heartily, rubbing her eyes.

“Not really.” Astraeus answered for her, as she recovered from laughter. “She used to be involved with uncle Bryce, so we knew her trade from when she visited us at his estate.”

“Yes, so we got too cocky when I was older and working on a case for Oakley Street. I tried to figure out how she gets her sources and such, she’s a formidable information broker, so I wanted to know how she did it.” Dorothea explained, adjusting the mirror to frame Malcolm’s eager eyes as she spoke.

“You got caught?”

“That’s putting it mildly, it was a bit of a scandal at her birthday party, but yes. Because I was, technically, family, she just locked me up in a warehouse down at the docks, which happened to be the same place some silk merchant kept his Muscovy merchandise. I was there for almost two days, then she let me go with a warning and that was the end of it.” Malcolm was delighted and horrified with the whole thing. “But she’s a dangerous woman, and as things have escalated with the Church, she’s becoming more and more ruthless. And she doesn’t pick sides, which can be a problem.”

“It's hard to find people to trust when they don't pick a side.” Malcolm let out and all she could do was nod. “But, then again, sometimes they just don't have the option to choose.”

“It's true. Madame Laurent, however, is in a very good position to take a stance, she just chooses not to.” Dorothea bit her index finger, pondering, her elbows resting at the open window. “One day she is having dinner with Magisterium officials, be them whoever they are and wherever they come from. On another, she is meeting Nugent or anyone of us with enough pull to reach her and she is giving us information on those same officials.”

“Maybe she is a double agent, after all.” Malcolm said, and while there was some seriousness in what he said, he used a cheeky tone that made her grin.

“She’s not that decent. No, she’s doing that for herself.” Dorothea watched as the pub door opened and an old man walked out, drunk enough to stagger through the street like in some silly pantomime that only happened in his head. She moved in her seat, her arms still on the window; the wind made her feel sharp and lively, but it brought a nostalgia that was making her feel misplaced. Her headache was going away, however, for that she was grateful. “What I can't tell it’s why she does it.”

“Money, no? A good motivation, I think.”

“True, but she's already rich, and she has businesses here and in France. Money seems too frivolous for her.” She let out a sigh. “I think it's more about the influence, the power, the control she has over people. She's not playing both sides, she's playing all of them! I remember when I was a child, she never slapped me physically but her words, oh, she knew exactly where to poke and what to say. Always complaining about my lack of gracefulness, my unfashionable clothes. _You're too English_ , she would say, the frigid bitch. All she cared for was appearances and prestige.”

“She sounds awful.” Malcolm's simplistic assessment was accurate and amusing; Dorothea snickered. “Why did your uncle leave her, you think?”

“He never said, but maybe he found out something truly horrible. He's not exactly squirmishy, it had to be something really bad.”

They watched as the pub door opened again, and once again, it wasn't Bud who had come out of it. Dorothea's patience finally ran out. She took out her seat belt, and reached for her gun in her purse.

“That's it, I'm going in after Bud--”

“Wait, there he is!”

She looked up and saw that Bud was coming down towards them, his cheeks flushed, his coat moving with the soft breeze. He moved quickly, his owl flying behind him, and before he got in the car he looked around, as inconspicuous as he could.

“So?” Dorothea asked, and Malcolm was leaning in as well, waiting for an answer. Bud put on his seatbelt, turned on the car, then reached for something on his inner pocket and dropped it on Dorothea's lap, before moving with the car.

She took it in her hands; it was a key holder, with three keys in it.

“Pub owner owns a house down a few blocks, he rents it sporadically for travellers or the occasional refugee who needs a cheap, quiet place to stay.” Bud's daemon spoke, as cheeky as he usually was but her tone was slightly more ominous that night. “He said the previous tenants left, two or three days ago, but he hasn't been there yet, to tidy the place up. I told him I was interested in a quiet place to lay low.”

“Clever.” She tapped her finger against the door, her arm leaning on the open windows. “Are we sure this is the Oblation Board?”

“Not really. I had to be very persuasive about this, the man really praises his tenant's privacy.” Bud said, turning right at the next street; she noticed he was driving a little too fast, but didn't say anything. “The pub owner said the people who contacted him didn't say much and he didn't ask much either.”

“Convenient.” Malcolm mumbled and Bud nodded, his eyes glancing to him through the mirror.

“Yeah. They asked to rent the place three weeks ago, two men, apparently, one of them was a sea captain or something like that. Then the owner didn't ask anything further. I think this is shady enough as it is to fit in with the Oblation Board.”

“I agree.” Dorothea turned to Malcolm, who had leaned back in his place at the backseat, looking invigorated despite his long day of chores. She smiled. “It seems our spy training will begin soon, Malcolm, darling. Too bad, I was hoping to spend some time teaching you all about cutlery and teacups!”

*******

They arrived not much later, with Bud parking the car far from the house, so they wouldn't draw too much attention. It was mostly a residential area, with a small grocery store on one side and a pawn shop on the other, both already closed, all dark at this hour of the evening.

She gave Bud a three-minute head start, then followed with Malcolm beside her, her hand resting on his arm. He was taller than she was, his steps slightly larger than hers so she struggled a little to keep up with his pace, as they followed through the door Bud had left open for them.

“It smells funny.” Bud said, turning on the anbaric light, a little defective and not as clear as they usually were. Malcolm closed the door behind them, and fixed the curtains so passerbys wouldn't pay too much attention to the light in there.

Dorothea got close to the sink where Bud pointed out the smell. It was clean, all the glasses and teacups placed on the dish drainer. The whole house, despite the gloomy, dark and greyish looks, was impeccable. Astraeus flew around, the distinct smell spread through the place was a mixture of two chemicals he and his person could identify. There was a soft scent of lavender, and then a stronger scent, of something clinical, medical.

“Bleach?” He asked her, but she shook her head. “You’re right, it’s more potent than that.”

“It smells like they've cleaned the whole place with something acid, something strong like they use in a laboratory to purify their equipment.” She said, accepting the handkerchief Bud offered her with a muffled comment. The scent was so strong it was making her weep and her stomach lurch, so she tapped away the little tear in the corner of her eye and moved on through the living room, also pristine.

Malcolm went into one of the bedrooms, his daemon sniffing everything, even more disoriented by the smell than the others.

“You think they were covering their tracks.” Bud said; it wasn't a question and his tone amused her, but she carried on, opening drawers, cabinets, taking a look at the fireplace, which was cold, but had used logs in it, as if it had been recently used.

“Yes. But why? What were they doing here?” She ran her finger across the surface of the coffee table. It had only a very faint layer of dust in it, probably because the house had been vacant for at least a couple of days. Malcolm showed up again, his daemon purring at his feet.

“The bedrooms are all clean and neat. They had time to clean this place up,” he said, taking a look behind the curtains, but everything seemed quiet out there. “and I don't believe they paid someone to do it. The chemicals, they were trying to hide something, that's for sure.”

Eilhart nodded, and they gathered together at the center of the living room, all standing up.

“Are we certain this is an Oblation Board lead?” She asked, feeling a chill down her spine. The house was very ordinary, working class looking; neat and comfortable, but the somber colours and the faulty lamp, with its glassy light, didn't help making the ambience feel less grim. “The place seems so… unofficial.”

Malcolm shared her concerns, she noticed, because he too seemed to be on his guard. His daemon was whispering to Astraeus, who was immensely distressed, she knew; he wanted to leave, he felt like something was wrong.

“We know something was happening here, people coming at odd hours of the day.” Bud said, and he must have sensed her uneasiness, because he smiled, confident and reassuring. Dorothea noticed his small owl daemon, though, perched on his shoulder, her eyes paying attention to everything; his guard was up too. “The owner said there's also a basement, where he put some furniture to function as an extra room. We should take a look, come.”

He moved towards the corridor, where the staircase to the basement started, but neither Dorothea nor Malcolm moved. They looked at each other, feeling each other’s uneasiness, but she didn't want to show him how she felt so uncomfortable, so she grinned.

“What is wrong with the two of you?” Bud said, coming back to the living room and staring at them, his eyebrows arched.

“This whole house gives me the creeps.” Eilhart said, and Malcolm nodded, feeling relieved he wasn't the only one with that impression. Bud scoffed. “I mean it! Chemical scent, pristine furniture. Bud, I don't know, but something here is not right. I feel it, so does Malcolm.”

“You can't be serious!” He said, but they were keeping their voices down, so he approached them again at the center of the living room, which was the spot illuminated the most by the lamp. “Not you too, Malcolm! You're both reading too many murder mysteries! Let's go, we need to--”

“Investigate the basement!” She finished his sentence, scornful. “Yes. I know, but I feel something wrong with this place.”

“You're a scientist, you're both logical people--” Bud started, but Malcolm shook his head.

“Fine, fine.” Dorothea let her breath out, but the feeling was still there, stronger now. “We'll go. Lead the way.” She took her gun out of her purse, and they followed, Malcolm behind her as she went behind Bud, down the stairs.

There was a door at the end of the stairs, so Bud stopped, in the dark, and tried the other keys. Eilhart leaned in, resting her chin on his shoulder, which made him tense for a moment.

“If a murderer jumps in on us, I'll shoot them, then you.” She jested and when he laughed, his whole body moved slightly. She wished she hadn't touched him, so she took a step back, accidentally stumbling on Malcolm; she whispered an apology.

The door opened with a click, and they followed in, with Bud and his owl looking for a switch to turn on the lights. Dorothea held her gun down, trying to stay prepared, but in the dark, unlike Asta or the owl, Astraeus had not much of an advantage.

Suddenly, the whole room went bright and she shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them again so she could get used to the illumination. There were two sets of beds, alongside some wooden stools spread through the room, and everything was impeccable, but in this room there were some things left behind. Under one of the beds, Malcolm found a doll, a book and some socks. The scent was much stronger there too, to the point Dorothea used the handkerchief to cover her nose.

“No murderers.” Bud jested and winked at her, and she rolled her eyes at him, a hint of a grin in her lips, hidden behind the handkerchief.

“Not funny.” She said, examining the anbaric lamp. “This lamp is new. It's working too well.”

They took turns examining the things Malcolm found, feeling less afraid as nothing had come to kill them, fear now replaced by a feeling of failure that Dorothea loathed and could not dismiss. Nothing they had found seemed important or relevant. The doll was ragged and dirty, one of her button eyes loose; the socks were small and dirty too, and the book was a childhood classic, a little worn-out, but there was a handwritten dedication inside it, wishing all the best to Ann on her tenth birthday.

“Well, it's a dead end.” She whispered, closing the book and dropping it on the bed nearby. She let out her breath, lowering her gun as Malcolm and Bud glanced at each other, weary and a little defeated. “All these items belong to children, but with all the people this house have harboured, those could belong to anyone.”

“There's a lead downtown on them too, maybe we could go there tomorrow and--”

“Shush, I hear something.” Asta said, her tail high, her front paw halfway down her step, froze in time, listening.

Everyone stood quiet, immobile. Asta quietly moved about the room, stopping, listening, then walking again. Dorothea herself couldn't hear anything, but Bud's daemon and her keen senses also picked up whatever Asta was hearing, and they moved about the room, very quiet, tracking down whatever noise they were hearing. Eilhart pulled her gun up again, prying her senses as much as she could so that the slightest creaking sound coming from under Bud's boots was audible and disconcerting. She exchanged glances with Malcolm and Bud, unsure, but Malcolm was focused on his daemon, watching as she went this way and that.

“There. I hear something. Behind the wall.” Asta showed them the spot, where a cabinet stood, hidden in a corner of the room, away from the beds and the door; it didn't look like it could move, being of solid wood and heavy metal foot, but when Dorothea kneeled to examine it, she noticed there was a crack on the wall, perfectly straight, going halfway across the wall, almost the size of the cabinet. 

“I think it's a secret door.” She said, getting up again, and she watched as Malcolm messed with the cabinet.

“It's cemented to the wall.” He said, quietly, and they all leaned against the wall.

There was the softest, faintest sound of a _tap, tap, tap_ , as if someone was knocking against the wall. Asta's fur got riled up, the owl made a soft noise of distress and Astraeus hid in her hair.

“Someone's in there, we need to open that, now.” Bud said. He went to help Malcolm pull the cabinet, but to their surprise it wasn't very heavy. When he pulled, the cabinet moved the wall with it, just a slice of wood planks under the cement and paint.

As they opened it all the way, a small arm fell, since it was leaning against the door, and a dirty hand touched the ground, their knuckles bruised and bloody. A butterfly came out of the darkness of that weird, secret room, and it changed to a cat, then a rabbit, then a bat. It changed several times, heavy breathing, desperate, then it clung to the hand on the floor in agony. Dorothea felt her stomach lurch, as she kneeled down, desperately clutching at the arm, then pulling out a small body, dirty with spot and grime, breathing shallowly, barely awake.

“It's a child, Bud! It's a child!”

*******

They loaded the body to the car, acting so desperately yet so quietly, that no one saw them leave. Dorothea locked the doors behind them as they left the house, Malcolm carrying the small boy in his arms and they drove, fast, to the nearest hospital.

As they stood beside the boy's bed at the hospital, Dorothea contemplated everything they encountered that night, and she was haunted by the idea of that boy stuck in that dark, small room, with near to nothing air, knocking against the wall, a sound that no one would hear.

“We heard him.” Astraeus reassured her, and Asta offered her a comforting glance too, but she felt distraught all the same.

She and Malcolm had got in the hospital to get the boy help, while Bud drove to the police station, to ask for help with a friend of his who was an inspector. Not many policemen were involved with Oakley Street, so they had to be careful, and there was no way to get that child any medical care without having to explain what had happened to him. Dorothea told the nurse she had found the boy while taking a stroll with Malcolm, who she introduced as her companion. Mentioning the house wouldn't be any good now, so she chose a moderate lie.

“What do you reckon happened to him?” Malcolm whispered to her, but she shrugged.

“Goodness, I wish I knew. How did he get in there?”

“Well, the cabinet was light enough that he could pull it and open the door himself.” Malcolm said, his eyebrows wrinkling as he pondered. “But why? That secret room, that was a smuggler's room, wasn't it? A place to keep things or people hidden during raids, in the past.”

She had noticed that too; she smirked at him, a little proud, but too distressed to say anything else. A room like that usually was meant for merchandise, not people, it only opened from the outside. A shiver went down her spine, as the boy slept, almost peacefully, his daemon resting on his chest in the shape of a robin, like Astraeus.

The detective inspector arrived a while after midnight, as a soft rain began to pour outside. Malcolm and Asta fell asleep on the armchair in the room they were in, and Dorothea fixed the coat over Malcolm. _He must have been exhausted_ , she thought.

“Why is it that whenever there is trouble, you always seem to be involved, Eilhart?” The inspector said, quiet enough to not wake up neither Malcolm nor the boy, and she couldn't help but smile, his deep and melodic voice being the first reassuring thing she had heard that evening, so far.

She had met Oscar Gallagher a long time ago, during an investigation Glenys Godwin had been involved with. Gallagher was in his 40s and he was one of the few policemen involved with Oakley Street, or so she assumed, but given the difficulty of keeping agents like that, that sort of information was usually kept secret to prevent them from being fired or killed. She expected that Bud would ask Gallagher for help because, as she well knew, they were close friends, so she wasn't that surprised to see him there. His daemon was a grey wolf called Saorsei, big and somehow regal looking, so disciplined and uptight she and Astraeus always had a good laugh while making fun of them and their authoritarian looks 

“I've been told I've a natural magnetism.” She turned to him, and he had a grin on his face, that quickly disappeared when he stood by her side at the bed. Her robin flew down to politely greet the wolf daemon, then went back her shoulder.

“That's Charlie Staunton.” He had a photogram in his hand, coloured, of a boy that matched the boy in the bed. “He’s been missing for almost two weeks. How on Earth did you find him?”

“Believe it or not, this was an accident.” She said, nonchalant, but he gave her an incredulous glance. When she returned the photogram to him, he glanced at her bruised wrist and seized it, a little too rough and raised an eyebrow. “Why does every man I know insist on grasping at me like that? Let me go, please. Everything’s fine.”

“You just found a missing boy on a nightly _stroll_ , everything’s _not_ fine, Eilhart.” He let her go, however; she crossed her arms.

“Did Bud tell you _where_ we found him?”

“Yes. I’ve been to the house. Dreadful place, and it clearly shows signs that someone tried to erase evidence of whatever went in there.” He let his phrase linger, amused, brushing his moustache with his finger. He side-eyed her and she sighed.

“It wasn’t us!” She casually mentioned, unimpressed.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” She knew he wasn’t serious because his voice had a hint of laughter, but she still felt uncomfortable because she didn’t know exactly what he knew about Oakley Street. “Maybe I should arrest you.”

“You’d be doing half of England a favour, you know.” She jested, but when she saw the boy, she felt dreadful again. She took the inspector by the elbow and walked him up to the window, opening it so they could watch the rain and the street down there. Dorothea also hoped the sounds of the city would muffle their conversation; she didn’t trust public places, even when they were alone in that room, apart from Malcolm, of course, and with a closed door. “We think this has to do with a new Magisterium group.”

“The Oblation Board.” Gallagher nodded, a grim expression on his face now. Dorothea thought she failed to conceal her surprise, because he added: “Bud told me that, but I have heard of them before. The chief of police up north has a lot to say about them.”

“Good or bad?”

“Bad, _very_ bad. Twenty-five children went missing there, from ages six to thirteen, and we believe they’re responsible.” He let out a sigh. “It’s very widespread, of course. They take three here, four there, and there’s always intervals. Usually they’re always street children, or from troubled homes.”

“Children that wouldn’t be missed, you mean.” She felt a bitter taste in her mouth. “Or that would be expected to run from home.”

“Exactly. But Charlie here, he comes from a good family. His mother’s a teacher, his father works at one of the factories at the Industrial district. They think he got caught on his way home from school or from the candy shop at the corner of where they live.”

“He _was_ missed. Maybe they’re getting sloppy.”

“It’s possible, or maybe Charlie got caught by someone else, we won’t know until I, and I alone, talk to him.” Gallagher said and his tone made Dorothea raise an eyebrow of defiance. “You’re not police. You can’t be here when he talks to me.”

“You and I both know that if you keep me out of the loop, I’ll just find a way to eavesdrop.” She grinned. “Save yourself the trouble, and let me observe. I won’t meddle, I promise.”

“You don’t have authority nor clearance for an interrogation.”

“I thought my charm would suffice.” She reached for his hand, jokingly, but he put it in his pocket, a disdainful smirk on his lips. “I have money and influence. I suppose _that_ is authority enough, no?”

“Are you offering to bribe me?” He had a sly smile on his face. “I could arrest you for _that._ Add it to the breaking and entering charge.”

“We had the bloody key!” She glanced over Malcolm, deep asleep on the armchair, uncomfortable and Charlie, recovering on his bed. She envied their peacefulness. “Besides, I’m not trying to bribe you. I’m telling you I could give your commissioner a call this late and make a teary spectacle and he’d force you to let me be here.”

“You’re an evil woman.” He scoffed. The way he said it was meant to be a jest, but the words reminded her too much of Marcel. It was already a bad evening as it was, so she forced that thought out of her mind. “He’s a pro-Magisterium man, the commissioner. Are you really going to take that risk just to be petty?

“Let me watch you talk to Charlie and I won’t have to.”

He looked at her, and she smiled sweetly, even though she was in a foul mood. Gallagher finally nodded, to her relief; she was more likely to eavesdrop than to call the commissioner, at any rate. She didn't like him and like Gallagher suggested, it wasn't safe.

Charlie didn't wake up anytime soon, however, so she spent the rest of the night either pacing through the room when the inspector stepped out either to make or receive calls and cop visits about the investigation, or to go the bathroom or buy something to eat. They mostly just did small talk, as they usually did because they had this odd tension between them that they couldn’t solve because his friendship with Bud made things too difficult to deal with. Dorothea wished Malcolm would wake up soon, because the whole situation was unbearable.

The child was mostly unharmed, except for being severely dehydrated and the poor air he had to breathe in that tiny room he was in. After he was cleaned from all the soot and dust, he looked very young, no more than nine years old. That alone left a bad taste in her mouth, because no one decent would ever go after children, let alone children that young; she resisted the urge to call Marisa and yell at her, because that would have ruined their investigation, not to mention she wouldn't get anything more from her friend than the usual smug attitude.

The boy woke up around four in the morning, by that time Dorothea was exhausted and all she wanted was her bed. Malcolm had already woken up as well, not feeling very well-rested, but definitely looking livelier. The inspector methodically asked Charlie questions, where he had been taken, how, by whom; he remembered a woman, offering him a treat.

“Do you remember her name?” Gallagher asked him, while Dorothea watched from the corner of the room, Malcolm beside her. She had a frown, and Astraeus chastised her for being so open about her feelings, but she couldn’t help it.

“No, sir.” Charlie said after thinking for a while; he sounded very meek, his daemon hiding under the blankets.

“Do you remember her daemon?” Dorothea asked, suddenly, approaching the bed.

“You can’t--” Gallagher began to say, but she raised her hand to interrupt him as Charlie had already began to talk. He scowled but turned to the boy.

“I think it was a type of bird, miss. A starling, I think.”

Dorothea let out a sigh. It wasn’t the answer she expected to hear. She went back to her corner with Malcolm, watching as the inspector finished his questioning with much more tact than she had.

She slipped out of the room just a while before the parents arrived, hoping to avoid a commotion. It was bad enough that the hospital staff knew already she had been the one who found the boy, she didn't need grateful or furious parents going to the press with her name.

Gallagher left a couple of minutes after talking to the boy's parents, and approached her as she and Malcolm waited by the hospital entrance. Rain was much thicker now, and so dense that the whole world was swallowed by darkness, even though sunrise was about to begin. He touched her elbow lightly, and she turned to face him, alongside Malcolm, both anxious.

“He doesn't remember anything useful.” The inspector said, gloomy. “I think they mistook him for a street kid.”

“It's possible.” She mumbled, rubbing her eyes, trying to keep the sleepiness away.

“When you asked him about the daemon, you had someone in mind, didn't you?”

“Yes.” Her tone clearly showed him she had no intention on sharing her thoughts. Malcolm sensed the tension, or so she assumed, and added:

“A starling daemon, they're common. Everywhere. It could be anyone.” Malcolm scratched his head. “Did he say who locked him up?”

“Yes.” Gallagher said, slightly amused. “He did it himself. When he realised they wouldn't let him leave, he sneaked during the evening and locked the place up. Apparently, he used to go play in that house when it was vacant, so he knew about the secret hiding spot. He remembers other children with him, four or five, and I think the people who took them didn't miss him, but he waited until the last moment to hide. He was in there for two days.”

“Clever boy. He probably locked himself on accident, got stuck. Maybe they thought he managed to ran away, so they panicked and fled. They seem to have left two days ago, same time he hid himself.” Dorothea breathed out, feeling tired. “Other children, you say? There was only him, but we found a book gifted to an Ann girl and the place clearly could harbor more children if they wanted to.”

“But why children?” Malcolm asked, confused. She shrugged, although she could think of a connection between Marisa's interest in Dust and children. Such matters, however, were inconclusive, and far beyond the type of knowledge the inspector could understand. He was, after all, a practical man and a faithful man, which put her in the difficult position of hiding that piece of information from him. All she had to do was mention Dust and chaos would ensue, as well as fear and repulse.

“That's a good question, one that I will try to answer as soon as possible.” He glanced over Dorothea, stern, and she felt a little intimidated, but she didn't let it show, instead straightening herself, her arms crossed over her chest.

Malcolm cleared his throat, which made her realise they were in silence. She turned her face to him.

“Maybe we should go back to my house, I'll prepare the guest room for you, we can start your lesson tomorrow.” She said, and he nodded, getting her implication that they shouldn’t tell the inspector much more than what he already knew.

“I'll ask Bud to bring the car around.” He left without hearing her protest, so she was forced to look back to the inspector, who had his arms folded over his chest, an eyebrow raised.

She sighed, as Astraeus stared at his daemon from her shoulder.

“You know things you are not telling me, besides your epiphany back in Charlie's room.” Gallagher whispered, and she scratched the space between her eyebrows, unsure of what to say. “I'm trying to help here, Dorothea, let me do my job.”

“I'm doing you a favour here, by not telling you certain things.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes, perhaps, but you are an honest man. You are required to report your knowledge of cases back to your superiors, you won't lie or omit, I know you, Oscar. Which is why I can't tell you things, the moment you report back, you'll jeopardize this entire case.”

“It's that woman you thought of, isn't it?”

She thought for a second, enough to give herself a scold for the poor choice of telling him at least that much.

“Yes. You might have heard of her. Marisa Coulter? She is the head of Oblation Board, for all that we know.” Rain got thicker, splashing on her legs as it fell against the staircase leading to the street. It was very cold, strangely, but she enjoyed the crispy feeling it brought her.

“I've heard of her. She's… very close friends with the Commissioner.”

“So you understand why I don't want you to know too much. One phone call from Marisa, and they can destroy your whole case, or worse. This way we can investigate the Oblation Board in a way that can grant us something useful. They are a byproduct of the CCD, they're virtually invulnerable.”

They watched as Bud parked the car across the street, keeping the headlights on as Malcolm got off the car, a big umbrella over his head. He was making his way towards them.

“You really don't know what they could be doing with the children?”

“No.” _But I can guess,_ she thought, though her guesses were all but concept and all horrifying to him if she ever spoke about them. She chose not to say anything. Malcolm stopped by the entrance, as she offered her hand for the inspector, who shook it, steady and strong, and nodded. “But whatever it is, it cannot be good.”

**_end of act one_ **


	9. act 2: prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> I decided to split because this part of the chapter didn't match the rest, so I made it into a world setup instead to fill-in the less exciting gaps that happened between act one and act two.  
> Thank you so much for all your feedback, it encourages me to continue writing this story, and I'm glad you guys enjoy it so much!
> 
> This is a small prelude for act two, which happens during the events of His Dark Materials, starting sometime after Asriel leaves for the North again in **Northern Lights.**

**act two**  
 _it comes so soon, the moment_  
when there is nothing left to wait for  
**marcel proust**

During the following months, Dorothea had a newfound disposition that was motivated by sheer rage, even though she never shared them with anyone. By spending so much time with Malcolm, however, she knew he noticed it. He didn’t seem bothered by it, though, which was a relief. 

He picked up the etiquette classes faster than she expected, and although she would deny to anyone else, she knew that learning certain things about high society had its values, because the first lesson she taught Malcolm, was that one only ever responded with violence if there was no other choice. Etiquette, manners, diplomacy were useful tools when choosing to avoid using a gun.

“Or your hands.” She added, grimly, with a smile that made him laugh, but her heart felt heavy; twice she had killed, and twice she had used her bare hands to do it. It haunted her, every day, but she didn’t have the soul to tell him.

Malcolm was a strong man, clever and quick to act, he could kill if he wanted to; he had, as she well knew, but his was a sensitive nature. She saw it the moment she met him, because that kind-hearted nature was the type of thing she was used to evading when meeting men.

While she thought all those fancy studies useful, she also chose to teach him everything about what she knew as spywork, which was all about patience, hard work and more patience.

“If we were in an open war, like when the agency was originally created, this would be less boring, or at least less slow. But this is a silent conflict, fought with papers and pens and politics, so we content ourselves with the rare occurrences of action. Rare being the keyword here.” She told him, as she was teaching him different types of code and how to conceal messages, swiftly, dexterously, so they could be delivered or hidden from authorities. “You’re lucky, you just get to do what you’re told. I got too greedy and now I have to deal with the stupid inner circle, which means more politics and boredom for me.”

“It can't be all that bad,” he said. Six months together now, they had already begun to warm up to each other, and he was less formal when addressing Eilhart, which pleased her. “You get to make important decisions.”

“I get to say my piece, yes, but they don't exactly listen to me, being the youngest in the room. Nugent is right though, I am too blunt, I’ve always been. I’d rather storm into a room full of people, then think of what my plan will be, which is the exact opposite of what a spymaster does-- Huh, no, you’re inverting the wrong letters, try again.” She corrected him, glancing over his shoulder as she stood by his side at her table. “Godwin would be a fine spymaster. She thinks a lot, but she’s a fast thinker. And she has more compassion than Nugent has, he never quite knew how to be compassionate, but it’s something that we’ll miss in the long run. I wish she hadn’t left for South America, we could use her to solve this GOB mess.”

Alongside the lessons, which were often held at her home in London or in Oxford, since Dorothea had begun to visit Hannah Relf more often, they spent a lot of time travelling through England, visiting cities affected by the now called Gobblers. The name unnerved her, but alas it did them justice, as they grew bolder by the day, kidnapping more and more children, with the police having very little luck acquiring any leads or suspects.

It was almost as if they were being deliberately sabotaged, which was of course, exactly what was happening, since the Commissioner had them digging clues that gained them nothing or doing investigations that led to dead ends. Gallagher’s tips to Oakley Street were always about how new cases were informed, but nothing new ever came up. The Commissioner’s friendship with Mrs. Coulter was the big reason for all of that, so they were now working on replacing him with someone less inclined to be bribed or intimidated by the Church, which was in itself, quite a difficult task. That, as she had told Malcolm, was tedious, boring, terribly slow work, but it was necessary, vital even; there was no jumping out of windows here, she knew and told him so, more to comfort herself on the matter, of course.

“But I’d rather jump out of windows, because that is safer than politics, that’s for sure.” Dorothea said, as they had left yet another home with a missing child, north of London, with no new information whatsoever. It was a lonely mother, with another three young children she could barely provide for. “We won’t find a new Commissioner that would last much, but at the very least we could try one that would grant us a small window to investigate.”

As the new year came by, the Gobblers continued their steady work without them learning anything useful. The only thing they had learned was that they took the children North, but nothing of what happened to them or where in the North specifically. She could guess, of course, but she held back until no choice was left. This was no simple or easy subject, and if she was right, she didn’t know what to do about it. Months of failure in acquiring anything consistent on the matter led to frustration, to the point she almost confronted Marisa many times, but held back. No good would have come from that.

The same day she decided to propose her new plan of investigation, after learning that Marisa had travelled around Sweden, Denmark, and some countries in Eastern Europe, was the day Nugent informed her that _La Maison Juste_ had changed hands, at last. She awaited that day, eager, fearful, dreading it since the day she found out Marcel had been invited to the job.

They went for tea that afternoon, before joining the rest of their people at the Office, and Nugent broke the news very nonchalantly. He seemed concerned by her mild reaction, amused even; all she did was raise an eyebrow, hardly impressed, then sipped her tea.

“You were right.” Nugent said, in a cheeky tone.

“Of course.” She smirked at him, sipping again. She would have preferred a glass of whiskey, but according to Nugent it was too early in the day for that. “It’s never late for a good regretful sulking.” She teased him, but he wouldn’t have it, so they went for tea instead. 

“Don’t be obnoxious. He really came into power soon, eh? It is unexpected, you said you hoped for it to happen in a few years.”

“He’s ambitious.” It was all she managed to say.

In the past weeks she had finally begun to compile a file on Marcel, her assessment of him, the things she knew, but she was never quite ready to part with it, instead holding the file with her and continuing to add things to it: her observations, her guesses as to what he would do in the following months, his motivations though she hardly knew them. Nothing in that file was ever conclusive and she blamed it on Marcel’s ability to just be a plain man. He was just too good at being dull.

“Indeed. Lucky us, Madame Laurent will be most pleased.”

Dorothea believed that, wholeheartedly. Not only the woman provided them good information, she had managed to drop the charges on Anthony, whom had escaped France well, despite the rough beating he suffered. With bigger problems in mind, the CCD didn’t mind him much, which meant he was relatively safe, though Nugent still sent him to New France under a student’s exchange program with their university. It was better to be safe than sorry, and if things continued the way they were, complications were bound to arise very soon. Madame Laurent also never asked for anything else other than the information they had traded, but Dorothea had a feeling they were missing something. She couldn't tell what it was, but she could feel it, that looming presence of a void of information blindsiding her. She hated every minute of it.

When Asriel returned from Lapland, she didn’t see him at all, as he instead went straight to Oxford, to raise money for a study that was now being whispered through every political group in England, and maybe on the continent too. They barely had time to talk, but his name was on every Magisterium lips out there, frightful, disdainful, dangerously inciting them to be afraid of whatever he was doing. He left, hours after he arrived, and although she would have liked to know what he was doing with details, Dorothea’s focus had to be solely on the Oblation Board and its dreadful efforts.

All in all, things seemed to be moving fast, even faster than she expected, and that was thrilling, because for once the world seemed to be moving in a pace she didn’t have to struggle to keep up.

Later on in life, Dorothea remembered that thought with fondness, a nostalgia for those days of intense climax and expectations, but also bitterly, because from then on, things only went downhill.


	10. failure to deliver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at this point, you guys probably know the drill: this is a very long chapter hahah  
> I tried hard to make it clear, but in the end it ended up long anyway, but I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> I did some quick research on zeppelins, and according to the Hindenburg itinerary, from Frankfurt to Rio de Janeiro, it took roughfully 4 days of travel; Google says Frankfurt and Rio are 9k ish kilometers apart of each other, while London and Stockholm are 1.5k ish apart, which means it stands to reason it would take less time anyway, so I chose a day and a half for no other reason than convenience, but the research backs it up or so it seems.
> 
> According to Northern Lights, the cocktail party happens at the end of Autumn or beginning of Winter, as a passage says "autumun began to change into winter", so I'm rolling off as the end of Autumn, so when the party actually happens, Winter is beginning.

the human condition seems to be one of waiting to be rescued.  
 _will it be you? will it be today?  
_ **jeanette winterson**

**_Autumn, 1996_ **

Dorothea knocked on a door, Malcolm waiting behind her, the chilly streets of Stockholm forcing her to straighten her coat. He had arrived at the city the night before, for they had split ways, as she went to Denmark, then Latvia, while he made his way from France, to Denmark, Norway and then, Sweden. Their choice of splitting up was solely because Dorothea had no desire to visit France, especially because she was easily recognised in Paris given her wild relationship with Bonneville, and she wanted to maintain their investigation as secretive as possible. So, she sent Malcolm there while she visited their leads up north, and they arranged to meet in Stockholm, where apparently all their leads seemed to converge.

Her proposition to Lord Nugent was that they should retrace Marisa’s steps in the past two years of her work prior to the GOB’s foundation, to see where she went, who she had talked to, the essentials to find out what motivated the creation of the Oblation Board. Eilhart funded their trip herself, as the more she dug into that mindless plot, the angrier she got, so she was set to putting a stop to it at any cost.

Marisa’s journey was mostly academic in all the places they visited; she talked to professors, researchers, amateur scholars, even an alchemist, much to Dorothea’s surprise, as alchemists were considered heretics by the Church. Always about Dust, but they knew very little as to why she was inquiring on that sort of thing. Marisa had too much charm, which meant these men all talked and talked, but never got anything from her, inflating Dorothea’s frustration. More than once she felt tempted to confront her friend - not friend anymore, maybe _colleague_? She couldn’t find a category for Marisa, but either way, she couldn’t confront her, not without jeopardizing the whole investigation.

“I don’t think anyone is home. Maybe we should come back later.” Malcolm said, his tone eerie, as he observed the sky. Grey clouds had begun to form, if they stayed out too long, they were bound to get caught in the storm that was coming. Astraeus chirped loudly, to push out their frustration; it did not work.

“No, we have to talk to this woman.” She knocked on the door again, a little harder this time. “I’m only leaving after I talk to her, you can go back if you want to, and the authorities can drag me out of here, if they want to.”

Malcolm chuckled, then leaned against the arm rail. The place they were was sort of a slum-like region, it was poor, for sure, with lots of abandoned houses and buildings, with some doors boarded up, even though some of these houses had lights or movements inside, showing that people lived there. They had been told that was a neighborhood of “bad apples”, as Professor Holmgren had so tactfully put, when they visited him at the university. He had been one of the people Marisa talked to, and Dorothea was prepared to give up when he had nothing new to tell them, other than praise for Marisa, but he eventually mentioned that Mrs. Coulter had visited a woman on the outskirts of the city, a librarian of a sort.

That didn’t sound like Marisa at all, which was why Dorothea was so interested, as well as the fact the professor said Marisa had been awfully careful to not be seen nor recognised while visiting that woman. They managed to get the address from the professor, who insisted they should be careful, as he considered the neighborhood less than tasteful and could so much as expect the woman Mrs. Coulter went looking for was just as troublesome. Standing now at the woman’s door, knocking for the third time, Dorothea was certain that this was an answer to their questions, good or bad.

“Go away!” Someone said behind the door, old and scratched; a female voice, meek and a little tired, with a hint of an accent. Dorothea straightened herself, almost excited. Malcolm stood up again, Asta stretching her limbs.

“Miss Falk, we just want to talk. My name is Dorothea Eilhart.” She said, in Swedish, clunky and inexperienced as that was one of the languages she used the least. There was silence. “I’m a scholar. I have a friend with me, his name is Malcolm Polstead, he is also a scholar back at Jordan College, in Oxford. We understand you had a visitor, a woman named Marisa Coulter. We were hoping you could tell us about that.”

Silence, still. _Well, at least now we know she is here,_ she thought. It would be awful to go back to London without a single shred of any information about the Oblation Board. The smallest thought of knocking down that door filled her head, but she was afraid of gathering too much attention. She could feel people’s gaze upon her, even though most of the people were hidden. Watchful.

“You would be watchful too if you lived here.” Astraeus whispered to her, harshly. She agreed.

“Miss Falk! Please! We just want to talk!” She tried again, with a less formal tone, her clunky use of the language embarrassing her.

“Your Swedish is very good.” Malcolm pointed out, politely. She had begun to think, lately, he had a mild crush on her, which she crushed hard, by patting him on the shoulder and referring to him as a proxy young brother she never had, whenever he looked at her more than he should.

“I’ll take the compliment, but it’s actually very bad. I never put too much effort into it, I didn’t think I’d need it. Until now-- Miss Falk, please. We came all this way to talk to someone who could know something.” She added again in Swedish, knocking the door again, but there was no answer.

“How’s your French?” Malcolm asked, nonchalant. She realised he was just making small talk in a way to reassure the woman they were indeed just scholars, nothing else, and very harmless. Dorothea took a step away from the door.

“It’s good, but I hardly use it if I can avoid it. It reminds me too much of Bonneville.” _And of Marcel_ , she thought, but she couldn’t say that out loud. Malcolm’s eyes flickered with something sad that quickly vanished. She wish she hadn’t brought that up. “My Anatolian needs polishing too, but it’s passable. I hardly ever use it though, and I don’t think I ever will.”

They waited in silence again, then Dorothea leaned in against the door, speaking more quietly.

“Miss, I understand your caution with us, but I have a very good guess as to why Mrs. Coulter came to see you. You see, in London, children are being taken, disappearing, and we believe Mrs. Coulter is responsible, for at least, the group that is taking them. What we don’t know, it’s why. You might know, all we ask for is a conversation.” Her ear pressed against the door, Astraeus perched in her shoulder, paying attention too, she could hear the heavy breathing of the woman they were set out to meet. “You don’t have to let us in, we can talk outside, if it makes you feel safer.”

“No, we can’t.” She said, quietly, and opened the door, unlocking at least four different locks. Dorothea took two steps back, and braced herself. The door opened. “They get anxious when they see me outside.”

The woman before them was young, in her late twenties, and she still was beautiful, even if she looked so disheveled and sad. Her clothes were creased and in dark tones, her sweater had a small hole and two buttons missing, her dark hair was tied up in a bun that was completely messed up, as if she had been lying down. She had her knees scratched, still healing from what looked like a fall injury and dark circles under her bright, teary eyes. That woman looked like she hadn’t rested in a decade or so.

Like many things in her life, all Dorothea needed was a good look at the girl to know she liked her, and usually in situations like that, Astraeus would have gone to her daemon, to greet and make friendship. He chirped, loudly, in distress; Asta did not move.

There was no daemon to meet.

*******

“I’ve been living here for four or five years now, since… since it happened. People like me tend to end up isolated and we’re essentially banned from society.” Alma Falk said, serving them tea in her poorly heated living room.

Her house was very small, dark and grim, the walls on the entrance hall were beginning to crack and a part of the roof was broken. But her living room was a liveable place, with a fireplace burning scraps of wood and three big shelves where books were piled up to the point they looked glued together. She also had some books piled beside her armchairs, all old and ragged, but Dorothea paid no attention to that. She was more concerned about looking at that daemonless woman, young but already looking so broken she seemed much older than she should be. Astraeus told her not to stare too much, even though he couldn’t resist doing the same himself.

“It’s a terrible way to live.” She added, sipping her tea. It was bitter, because Alma had no sugar; she apologised twice for that, so Dorothea pretended with all her willpower that the tea was very good.

“Yes, yes, it is.”

Astraeus was immensely distressed, as he usually was, but he tried hard to conceal it, for Alma’s sake. Dorothea herself felt scared, part of her repulsed by the sight of that broken woman, and then she felt ashamed after that feeling faded slowly, as Alma talked, sweet, shy, highly well-educated. _A Librarian,_ Dorothea thought. She was still a human being and Dorothea struggled with the fear, the repulse, intent on treating that woman with the respect she deserved. Malcolm watched everything, very stoically, not unlike him at all, but something on his eyes was unsettling. Dorothea couldn’t name it, neither could Astraeus though he whispered several guesses, so they let it go and focused on the woman instead.

“I apologise for being so rude at the door.” Alma added, holding her hands together. “It’s just-- when people come here, they usually come to harass me. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Miss Falk.” Malcolm added, quietly, politely and so pleasant. Dorothea wished she could harness that resolve before that uncanny situation. She tried, and she was usually good at that, but in this case, it was just too hard. Her whole body seemed to betray her as she spoke, though Alma seemed to have no reaction to that.

“Please, call me Alma. How can I help you?”

Dorothea calmly explained the reason for their visit, how they tracked Marisa’s steps back to Alma’s doorstep. The simple, poor house was the last place Dorothea thought she would visit; anyone who knew Marisa would know that, because that didn’t look like a place she would even glance at, let alone stand there. But knowing Marisa was also ruthless and she was inclined to hard work when she wanted to, perhaps it shouldn’t have been that surprising after all. A decrepit house and a broken woman wouldn’t have stopped her, as Dorothea well knew.

“Yes, Mrs. Coulter stopped by, that was almost a year ago. She wanted to know about… about my condition.” Alma said, in English; Dorothea was having trouble communicating in Swedish, much to her own amusement, and she offered Malcolm a smirk when Alma changed the language. The corner of his lips twisted a little. “She asked a lot of questions. I don’t remember much of them, but I remember she wasn’t very afraid of me.”

“Marisa’s threshold for the uncanny is quite high.” Eilhart commented, and Malcolm glanced at her, puzzled. “She’s not your usual lady, Malcolm. She’s travelled a lot, seen a lot too. I’m not surprised you didn’t scare her, Alma.”

“To be fair, I remember her because that was unexpected.” Alma added, anxiously, then her eyes darted between Malcolm and Dorothea. “Everyone is always scared or repulsed by me, they _should_ be, it’s unnatural, but neither of you are scared as well.”

Eilhart watched as Malcolm moved, slightly uncomfortable, Asta sitting by his feet, her tail swinging up and down for a moment. She turned to Alma, and smiled.

“Oh, I can’t speak for Malcolm, but I am definitely afraid. Fear is so senseless sometimes though, and I have met someone like you before, so it’s not so shocking as it was the first time. I remember I fainted or something, quite embarrassing.” Alma nodded and Dorothea leaned back in her chair, trying to look cool and calm. “I understand people without their daemons are more common than we think, right?”

“Yes, though we’re not easy to find. We can’t exactly walk in broad daylight, not if we don’t want to be chased off the streets.”

“Yet I know some of you gather together, you know of each other.”

Alma’s eyes narrowed, behind her square glasses; she had a fierce look on her face now, her fists clenched.

“Some of us do, yes.” She scowled. If she had a daemon, whatever his shape was, he would probably be hissing at Eilhart. “Tell me, was your guess correct?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your guess, as to why the woman visited me. You said you had a good guess about it. Were you right?” Alma asked, her inquisitive eyes darting all over Dorothea, who grinned.

“I think so. She visited you because of your knowledge about daemonless people, no? Though I couldn’t have predicted you were also… like them.”

“Mrs. Coulter knew about that, quite extensively. About me, especially.”

“I figured that much. The human-daemon bond is what interests her, that much we learned from our travels.”

“She wanted to know _where_ to find specific people.” Alma crossed her arms and her eyes darted between Malcolm and Dorothea. She clearly felt intimidated; without her daemon to support her, Dorothea thought she had to compensate for the lack of his presence, but she wasn’t exactly a fighter type of person. “I didn’t tell her anything, and I don’t intend to tell you either, if that is what you are expecting.”

“I don’t expect you to tell us anything, Alma.” Dorothea said, and stood up; Malcolm looked at her and opened his mouth to say something, but she raised her hand to silence him, still looking at the woman. “I don’t intend to place you in a position where you could compromise your friends.”

Alma looked at her, almost unblinkingly, terribly defiant.

“Then why are you here?”

“Well, I don’t expect you to be friends with Mrs. Coulter, so I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell us why she was here, her questions, her motives.” Dorothea smiled, welcoming and witty. “I don’t need to know the answers for that, only what the questions she asked you.”

She held her breath, feeling the tension as Alma examined her, every inch of her behind her glasses, measuring, wondering. Eilhart couldn’t find in herself to judge her; she couldn’t possibly imagine what had happened to her to be now daemonless. She could only assume Alma would distrust and dislike Marisa enough to tell them anything useful, as Dorothea had no intention to press the matter otherwise. That woman had been harassed enough as it was; she hoped Marisa’s charm hadn’t work on Alma, but that was very rare.

“She was asking for something specific. A specific _person_ , so to speak.” Alma rubbed her hands against her thighs, anxious. She adjusted her glasses and looked away for a while, glancing at Malcolm, before addressing Eilhart again. “I didn’t tell her anything, of course, but she already knew her name.”

“Someone like you, I assume.”

“Yes, and no. The person she wanted is like us, broken bond, but she still has her daemon. They were simply separated, you see.”

Malcolm and Eilhart exchanged glances, though they weren’t quite in sync. She saw in his face a calm expression, but his eyes had a hint of alarm, slightly wide. She felt a shiver down her spine.

“She wanted to know where she was, as much as the others might have told her her name and so on, no one knew nor told her where the woman she was looking for lives.”

“What is so special about this woman?” Malcolm asked, while Dorothea crossed her legs the other way around, uneasy. “I mean, other than just being separated from her daemon.”

Alma narrowed her eyes, and after a moment, she swallowed hard before going on. Dorothea assumed she was deciding whether or not she should share what she knew. She wondered, quite terrified, about how Alma had handled Marisa and her total lack of respect or consideration for anyone’s feelings.

“I don’t really know, but I think it’s because she was separated when she was very young. At least, it’s what the rumours say; we don’t really discuss publicly what happened to our daemons, and that woman was especially secretive. But since you mentioned the daemon bond--”

“Oh, I see.” She felt a shiver down her spine, it didn’t take much for her mind to start wondering all the pieces of information they had, which weren’t many. “I think it makes sense now.”

“Does it?” Malcolm asked, a little puzzled. Alma had an expression of understanding now, as if she had connected the same dots as Eilhart, though she seemed a little unsettled by Dorothea pacing near her bookshelves.

“Dust, children, the daemon bond. These are the three core elements of Marisa’s inquiries that we followed.” She mumbled. “If she found this woman Alma mentioned, I think she might have learned something very useful that allowed her to create the GOB. The CCD wouldn’t settle for anything shorter than actual, solid proof that these things are connected.”

“She never mentioned Dust, not so explicitly, and I never told her where to find the woman she was looking for.”

“But you know that the woman is now dead.” Dorothea watched as Alma swallowed hard, her eyes wide of surprised. She wondered if she had made a wrong move by saying that so explicitly. _Barge into the room, then think of a plan,_ she thought, amused. “Or at least, that the woman is missing, no?”

“I-- I don’t know. There hasn’t been any news from her in a while.” Alma muttered, baffled. “How-- how on Earth did you know?”

“I didn’t. I was baiting you and it worked. I do, however, know Mrs. Coulter. I know she wouldn’t rest until she got what she wanted. I know she would erase whatever evidence to her work if she thought for a moment, that someone would try to do what I am doing now.” Dorothea said. “Did she threaten you?”

“She tried, but I assure you, I’ve dealt with worse than Mrs. Coulter.”

Her ominous tone made Dorothea pause, for a moment. She stared at that woman for a while, now measuring her, her scholarly glasses and her rigid posture. She wasn’t very certain of her own conclusions, so she allowed Astraeus to whisper in her ear.

“Take a look around, find facts to back your theories.” He told her, but that was his motto, not quite helpful.

Dorothea finally stood up, and paced around the room; Malcolm and Alma exchanged glances, and the woman quickly looked away when he offered her a comforting smile; they made smalltalk. Eilhart crossed her arms, and walked in front the shelves; then she glided her hand around the books’ spines, almost mindlessly, listening to Malcolm’s clunky attempt to make Alma feel comfortable. She was, however, looking for something, flower designs in relief, small transparent stickers, that people placed carefully under authors’ names in such spines. Something about Alma was off, in some ways; something beside her lack of daemon. Astraeus had whispered to her his guess, and it was a good one. Alma’s eyes were far too intense for someone who looked so meek, but more importantly, why would Marisa fly all the way to Stockholm, to roam about in the outskirts of a city, just to seek a woman like that? It didn’t add up. Marisa had to know something about Alma that was eluding Eilhart and that alone was gnawing at her soul.

She stopped before a thick book about Mediterranean plants, where her finger brushed against what she was looking for. The engraved shape of a rose, transparent, but there. She picked up the book and paged through it, then checked the first page, where it was printed _Property of the Library of the University of Paris._ Underneath there was a stamp, dark and smudged, but clear enough that Dorothea made out the Magisterium symbol and the word _approved_. She let out a breath, almost feeling relieved; perhaps she could bring Oakley Street something more tangible than the very little information they had gathered on the Oblation Board. She looked over her shoulder, and while Malcolm was still talking to Alma, she had her eyes locked on Dorothea, watching, her breathing pattern accelerating.

“Alma, how good is your French?”

She didn’t answer, for a second, her eyes darting around, her panic almost showing. Dorothea feared she might run away, but she didn’t move, her hands clawing at the armchair, her nails digging deep in the object.

“It’s reasonable.” She said at last, finally recomposing herself, though not entirely.

“I assume it is, you do own a great deal of books in French.” Dorothea pointed at some volumes in the shelves, then the volume in her hands. Alma didn’t respond; instead she dug her fingers deeper in the couch, panicking again. “From your old library, I assume. Your old, unusual job.” She added in French. Alma went pale.

“You’re spooking her, fix this.” Astraeus whispered, and Dorothea moved fast to assess the situation.

“Malcolm,” She said; that startled him a little, and he looked at her, confused. “Would you please go back to our hotel and start packing our things?” She searched inside her pocket and took a key that she gave him, then. He took it, baffled. “Mine too, please. We’re taking the next zeppelin home, but I need a word with Miss Falk, alone.”

He didn’t move at first, but Dorothea nodded at him, and Astraeus whispered to Asta that everything was well. He then nodded back, stood up and shook hands with Alma; looking back to Dorothea, who nodded again at him to encourage him, he followed Alma back to the entrance.

Dorothea went back to the armchair, and leaned against its rest, using her hands as support. She examined the woman, carefully, her eyes glittering with amusement, as Alma carefully made her way back to her place in the couch. She had expected Alma to run away, Dorothea felt like if she had been in the same position, she would have ran as fast as she could, but Alma was too curious to do that. They stared at each other, in silence; Alma looked away at first, but she couldn’t ignore Dorothea forever, so she glanced back, almost defiant, but absolutely scared.

“You were part of the Sigil, weren’t you?” Dorothea said, at last. Alma barely moved, barely breathed. “Yes, I know about it. I don’t mean any harm, please, you can relax.”

Alma let out her breath, her whole body moving, as if she had been trying to compress all her muscles. She rubbed her temples, before addressing Dorothea again.

“So much for a secret society.” Her sore tone was almost amused.

“I was invited, once. It’s how I know of them, well, of _you_.”

“Not many people decline that invitation, Miss Eilhart.” Alma said, stoically. “You must have had a good reason.”

“I did. You see, Malcolm and I belong to Oakley Street, I’m sure you _have_ heard of them.” Alma nodded, and Dorothea felt like she was now being stared at very differently. Almost respectfully, maybe. “I couldn’t be part of the Sigil, given your extreme desire to remain as secret as possible, and still work for Oakley Street. I chose to be practical, thus I chose my current position.”

“I see.” Alma mumbled. “I don’t know what you expect from me, but I’m sure you are aware the Sigil is no more.”

“I am. I understand you were dismantled, five years ago, correct?” Dorothea straightened herself, and walked closer to Alma. Such a sad woman, barely more than a girl, broken irreparably. _Five years,_ Dorothea thought, _the same amount of years she has been daemonless. “_ The Magisterium’s hand of mercy arrested many of you, killed others, as far as the rumours go. Were you arrested?”

“Yes.”

“Did they torture you?”

Silence, but silence was enough of an answer. It was why she didn’t even fear Marisa’s threat, which would have been, doubtlessly, very terrible.

“Did you talk?”

Alma looked up, her eyes meeting Dorothea’s, so many feelings imbedded in them she couldn’t begin to discern what she was feeling, but at any rate, she assumed they weren’t any good. She tried placing herself in Alma’s place, how would she feel if Oakley Street ended up like the Sigil. She shuddered at that thought; that was nearly inconceivable.

“I don’t know, I don’t remember much.” Alma took a deep breath, then let it out, tired. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I was caught up during the CCD’s hunt for us. They were arresting us by the dozen, in Norway, France, Latvia, Portugal. Most of our European circles were arrested or killed or intimidated and then left the group. The ones that weren’t caught, ended up shut down, fearing the same fate.”

“Yes, I was told once that fear is a great weapon. Tell me, did you flee or did they just let you go?”

Alma scoffed, bitterly. “They let me go, in a wat. A friend of mine pulled some strings and had me release under the pretense I wasn’t relevant enough to keep, but I was afraid they would come back, so I took my things, changed my name and fled France, back to Norway. Then I came here, to Stockholm, because living back at home wasn’t all that great anymore.”

“So, Alma Falk is not your name?”

“It is now.”

Her determined tone was enough to make Dorothea nod. She took a step back, put her hands in her pockets, Astraeus perched in her shoulder, carefully watching Alma with a fearful interest.

“I don’t see how you hope I can help you, Miss Eilhart. What is left of the Sigil is mostly in other continents, and it doesn’t operate like we did in the past. It has virtually died the day the Magisterium found us out.” Alma said, standing up.

“I know that, but you used to be part of them, you still have your contacts, don’t you?”

“We’re not a secret service, Miss Eilhart.” Alma said, snickering. “My contacts used to be scholars, scientists, librarians. We’re academics, not spies. And, no, I no longer am in contact with them. Not since… since, you know...” She waved around herself, sad. Dorothea let out a sigh. Astraeus chirped, melancholic, to show support.

“I see. Tell me, did Mrs. Coulter know of your allegiance?”

“Goodness, no. Even after our disbanding, the Sigil was still a secret. They hid our arrests and deaths under any reason, except the real one for fear of inspiring other groups. All she knew was that I had a register on the CCD’s arrest records, she seemed to have learned my old name, so she assumed I was part of some type of resistance.” Alma scoffed. “She threatened to expose me.”

“Sounds like something she would do.” Dorothea sighed. “What did you say to her?”

Alma laughed, an unhappy but vicious and satisfied smile.

“I told her to fuck off, what else? She still tried to get information, but I sent her away. But if she found another way to V--” Alma stopped halfway, as she realised she almost said things she shouldn’t say. She closed her mouth, her eyes scanning Dorothea for any sign of malice, strong eyebrows, strong gaze behind the glasses. She couldn’t find any, though Dorothea didn’t quite feel like Alma trusted her either. “Vivian. That’s the woman’s name. If Mrs. Coulter found her, it could explain her absence.”

“Maybe she went into hiding.” Dorothea said, more to cheer Alma up than anything else. She nodded, but there was hopelessness in her face. “I’ll keep an eye out for any mention of Vivian once I go back to London. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

“I-- thank you, Miss Eilhart.”

“It’s Dorothea. At any rate, Alma, I want to help you-- I don’t know how, but I want to!” She took a small card from her pocket and handed it to Alma. The woman stared at it, reluctantly, then slowly reached for it; she picked it up and held it with both her hands. She then looked up at Dorothea, puzzled, adjusting her glasses on her face.

“No one can help me, Miss Eilhart. This is the sort of ailment that is beyond science’s reach, I’m sure.”

“I find that hard to believe. If you should ever change your mind, please reach out to me in London, or Oxford. That is my address. We could use someone like you in Oakley Street and I’m confident I can find a way to help you.”

Alma offered her a sad smile.

“In my condition, I don’t think I’m suitable for subtle work. People with no daemons tend to attract too much attention.”

“We could find a way and--”

“I thank you for the offer, Miss Eilhart.” Alma said, offering the card back to Dorothea, who shook her head, her hands in her pocket. “But I cannot help you. You want the Sigil’s help, and I understand that, we used to be strongly well-connected, but the Sigil doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Just because it died, doesn’t mean it should have died for nothing.” Dorothea said, a little brazenly. She then took a deep breath, and softened her tone. “Well, I understand and respect your choice. I apologise for the insistent behavior, but our people at the agency struggles everyday, so I know you can see the appeal of a former Sigil member.”

“Yes, I can. And I wish I could help you, but as you can see, I can scarcely help myself.” Alma said, gently. “I am truly sorry.”

Alma walked her back to the door, and tried to give the card back again after Dorothea went outside and turned back to say goodbye. She pushed Alma’s hand away, gently, squeezing it with all the kindness she could gather.

“Keep the card. Should you change your mind tomorrow, next week, next year - I don’t mind, really - just reach out to me and I’ll do what I can to help you. I have yet to meet a challenge I can’t conquer!” She straightened her coat before walking away. “Stay safe, Alma.”

Alma watched Dorothea walk away, back to downtown, so tall, clean and graceful, so happy and whole with her robin daemon, so full of hope and fire and idealism for her cause, and she felt jealous, or anything similar to that, as she couldn’t quite feel much these days. She closed the door, and held the card tightly in her thin fingers, as she went back to the living room, getting colder as the fire slowly died.

She sat in her armchair, bracing her knees against herself, her face buried in them, her glasses now on her hair, the card tightly pressed in her trembling hand, and she allowed herself to cry.

*******

When Dorothea got back to her hotel room, evading the storm by a couple of minutes, the first thing she did was throw up in her bathroom, letting out all her distress after seeing Alma and her lack of daemon. It has stressed her out a lot, so she vomited everything she could. She then sat under the shower, in the bathtub, and cried for a couple of minutes until she forced herself to gather her nonsense together because they still had to catch a zeppelin that evening.

Malcolm had already packed her things and was finishing packing his own, when she finally cleaned herself up, and dressed up. If he noticed she had cried, he didn’t say; and if he expected her to ask him why he wasn’t so distressed when seeing Alma, he didn’t show and she didn’t ask.

“It is none of our business.” She told Astraeus, after he suggested she hinted at it just once. To be fair, she felt a little overwhelmed to get involved in that lack of daemon business again and she believed Malcolm would speak of it, if he wanted to. He wasn’t one to measure words if it wasn’t necessary.

They managed to catch a zeppelin around midnight, and Malcolm spent a good portion of the night finishing one of his essays, while Dorothea wrote down everything they knew about the GOB in her own journal. It wasn’t much, but put together with her early assumptions, she found a reasoning that was troubling, but informative enough. And it made her shiver, because if she was right, Marisa’s plans with the Oblation Board were worse than expected. Then there was the matter of the children’s location, which they didn’t know yet, and all of that combined was giving her a morality headache. She wanted to confront Marisa, but doing so would place their whole investigation at risk. They barely talked anymore, anyway, and perhaps that was for the best. In a foul mood, she could easily shoot Marisa, and the same could be said about her friend.

Their arrival in London, a day and a half later, was more turbulent than she expected. As Malcolm and Dorothea made their way through the parking lot, where she expected to find her driver, they saw, a little far away, Bud Schlesinger and Hannah Relf, waving frantically at them.

“Did you forget to deliver another essay?” Astraeus chastised her, as they walked, faster, in their friends’ direction.

“No?” Dorothea said, a little unsure, but as far as she could remember, everything was properly done. That made Hannah’s presence there puzzling, as she didn’t usually leave Oxford.

“Malcolm!” Bud nodded at him as they approached, Hannah held Dorothea’s hand and pressed them nervously.

“Where have you been? Didn’t you get any of our letters, our telegrams?” She said, her face flushed as if she had run there.

“No, no letters. Why? What happened?” Dorothea felt her whole body shiver, a cold sensation taking hold of her limbs. Astraeus flew around her head as she began to panic. “Why are you here? What is happening?”

Bud was placing their luggage in his car, almost furiously, and he too looked like he had ran a marathon.

“You’re freaking me out! Tell me!” She looked at Hannah.

“It’s Lyra, Thea. Mrs. Coulter has her.”

Dorothea was about to get in the car when she heard that, but she stopped halfway, her hand resting on the door. She looked, baffled, at Hannah, then Bud, then Malcolm, who looked back at her just as surprised. Astraeus chirped, and she realised she was staring at them in silence.

“What do you mean? How?” She barked, and got in the car, Malcolm alongside her; Hannah took the front seat, while Bud drove them around London. He didn’t say where, but Dorothea’s best guess was that he was going to Nugent’s place; in a situation like that, it was what made sense.

“She just showed up at Jordan two weeks ago, and God knows what she said to the Master, but she said enough that he allowed her to take Lyra with her.” Hannah explained, flustered. “He invited me for the dinner too, I was there. Mrs. Coulter didn’t tell Lyra who she is, or who Lord Asriel is either, at least not then. It’s… it’s all so strange.”

“Why hasn’t anyone contacted me?”

“We tried, we _really_ tried. Telegrams, letters, phone calls… It seems like Mrs. Coulter intercepted all of that so you wouldn’t know of what was happening.” Bud said, and he turned the car around.

“I don’t understand! Where’s Asriel?” Dorothea snapped and she watched as Hannah and Bud exchanged a quick glance. It was ominous, for sure. “Where is Asriel?” She asked again.

“We can’t reach him either, last we heard he was somewhere in Svalbard but none of our calls nor correspondence reached him.” Bud said. They had stopped the car in front Nugent’s house, and Dorothea got out of it as fast as she could, barely waiting for the others.

She stopped before the door and rubbed her temples. She felt the presence of Malcolm, Hannah and Bud behind her on the stairs, waiting for her, but never before opening a door was so difficult. She rested her hand on the doorknob and let out all the air she had in her lungs, Astraeus whispering words of reassurance to her. Then, she turned the doorknob and opened the door.

They found Nugent reading a couple of files in his living room, he barely looked up when she walked in, followed by the others who found different places to rest: Malcolm on the couch, puzzled, tired; Hannah beside him, her hands on her lap, her posture straight and adequate; Bud leaned in against the desk nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. Dorothea felt their gaze on her, much to her discomfort. _Of all the months for Marisa to kidnap Lyra like that_ , she thought bitterly. She had hoped for two days of rest and a good bath, accompanied of a good drink; instead she had been thrown at the heart of a storm with no way out. _Well, a way out is not morally correct anyway._ She could just let it go, but they knew well she wouldn’t do that.

“Why can’t we reach Asriel?” She finally said, looking at Nugent.

Nugent put his file down, joined the tip of his fingers and looked at her, almost amused. Dorothea put her hands on her hips, waiting for an answer he quite took his time to give.

“He was last seen in an outpost near Svalbard, then he vanished. No answer, no messages. One might even think he is dead.”

“He isn’t. This doesn’t make sense.” Dorothea scowled, rubbing her eyes. Astraeus whispered in her ears. “You’re lying to me. Why?”

Nugent looked at her. She felt everyone’s gaze upon herself, alongside their feelings: Hannah’s apprehension, Malcolm’s tired caution, Bud’s puzzled impatience. Dorothea did not break eye contact with Nugent, though; she felt like if she did, he would never tell her the truth.

“I can stare at you for a whole month if I need to.” She scowled and he scoffed. “Tell. Me. The. Truth.”

“I do not know with certainty, not yet, but rumour has it Asriel has been arrested by the _panserbjorne_.” Nugent added. Dorothea buried her face on her hands, letting out a deep sigh. She rubbed both her cheeks, until they were flushed and red and warm. “We haven’t confirmed that, not yet, anyway, but I wanted to be certain before I told you.”

“You’re lying, _again._ You were never gonna tell me anything!” 

“I understand you’re stressed--” Nugent begun, but she interrupted him, pacing around the room, Astraeus flying behind her as she was moving too fast for him to settle.

“No, you don’t, you don’t _fucking_ understand. Lyra is with her mother, which is already bad on its own; Asriel is _supposedly_ in prison, the only person who actually made Marisa hesitate; and I think I might know what the Oblation Board is doing and it’s bad, Tom. It’s fucking, absurdly bad.” Dorothea let the air out of her lungs. “Why would you keep that from me? Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you--” He said, and she snorted, unamused. Nugent raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. “I _do_ , but you are reckless, and Asriel is your friend. It’s only natural that you would want to help him, but how can you help him if we don’t know yet if he needs help?”

“I told you, when I took up the Oblation Board investigation, that I’d defer to your instructions and judgement, so here I am, _instruct_ me.” Dorothea said, dropping in an armchair across Nugent. She spread her arms in a defeated gesture. “Am I to help him or not?”

“As I _just_ said, we’re still not sure if he needs assistance.”

“Yes, he does. When did you first heard of his situation?” Dorothea glanced between Hannah and Bud, since she didn’t expect Nugent to answer her, not when she was being so rude and demanding.

“A week ago, or so.” Hannah said. “I was visiting Professor Papadimitriou at Jordan, when I heard some undergraduates murmuring about it. I didn’t mind it, at first, I thought it was just mindless gossip, but after George told me Lord Asriel hadn’t replied to any of ours messages, I passed on what I heard.”

Dorothea stretched her neck this way and that, pressing the nape of her neck as she moved, thinking as Hannah spoke. She rested against the armchair, her hand above her mouth to prevent them from seeing her displeased expression.

“There is also talk in the embassy,” Bud added, from his corner; she glanced at him, then back at Nugent, who simply nodded. “of a scholar with the bears and how that has been a problematic situation. They’re calling this scholar a _Magisterium_ _prisoner_ , something about his research has drawn attention.”

Dorothea snorted, quietly, then shook her head, her fingers touching her temples.

“My, this isn’t good.” It was all she managed to say. “This isn’t good at all. I told him, again and again, to stay in England, but he never listens!”

“We’re still not sure if it is Asriel.” Nugent added, but the way he looked at her, made Dorothea realise they had arrived at the same conclusion. “There are many scholars who openly oppose the Magisterium, or with debatable topics of research.”

“You know that is not true, no one is quite like Asriel.”

“Your own research could be labeled as heretical.”

“The history of experimental theology? Hardly. It’s quite tame in comparison to Asriel’s.”

“Not if you keep that argument about the Magisterium’s presence hindering scientific progress.” Hannah mentioned, quietly and Dorothea allowed herself to smirk at that remark, but she didn’t say anything else. “That could get you into trouble very fast.”

“That was merely a joke.”

“That is your thesis conclusion, essentially.” Hannah snapped back, but she sounded amused instead of angry. “You’re lucky this field doesn’t attract much attention anyway.”

“They’re busy being afraid of Dust, which is what Asriel is messing with.” She sighed, then turned to Nugent. “You know as well as I do that Asriel is likely truly in prison. It’s Marisa’s doing, I’m certain you have connected the same dots as I have. This is the only way she could have taken Lyra from Jordan with no resistance from the Master.”

“The Master truly was intimidated by her presence, though that is usually her effect on most people.” Hannah said. “But do you really think she could make such a bold political move? Isn’t that a little… out of her league?”

“She did gather a lot of influence over the years, so I believe that with the right support, she could have managed it.” Dorothea leaned forward, putting her index finger in the coffee table, for every couple of words she said.

“You have someone in mind.” The way Nugent said that made Dorothea think he also had someone in mind, and that someone was Marcel.

She nodded. “Lord Boreal.” Nugent smiled, faintly, his daemon twisting her head to look at Dorothea better. She was right, he had been thinking of Marcel. “Boreal has strong connections in Parliament, but not only that, he also has money and we assume he is an agent for the Consistorial Court. I mean, we cannot prove it, but it’s known that he works for them, he does them favours and such.”

“I hear they’re very close, aren’t they?” Nugent mentioned. “Your friend and Boreal, I mean.”

“Close? She has him on a leash, not that he noticed it, anyway.” Dorothea scoffed. Astraeus perched on the coffee table, quiet. “With his connections, she could pull off something like talking the bears into arresting Asriel, especially if what I hear about that king of theirs is true. All Marisa would have to do is bat her eyelashes at Boreal and ask nicely and the introduction is done. That bear had no chance against her, that I know for sure.”

“Can we find a way to confirm if Asriel is, indeed, in trouble and if so, how much trouble has he found himself into?” Nugent said, his eyes hovering over Bud, who nodded, fiercely.

“I have already reached out to a diplomat I know, she visits Svalbard frequently, I’m expecting news from her soon.”

“Good, good. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll plan on what to do about Asriel.” Nugent asked Malcolm to bring him the bottle of brantjiwn and he poured half a glass for everyone. “Now, I believe we should focus on the girl.”

Dorothea scoffed, loudly, a dry laughter coming out of her lips. She finished her drink, rested against the armchair, crossing her arms over her chest. Astraeus straightened up on his spot on the coffee table, then glared at her, irritated. Nugent raised an eyebrow, and she thought he had the expression of someone who was expecting that reaction. _Ten years of me yelling about the girl’s importance and_ now _he wants to make her a priority_ , Dorothea thought almost amused if not too emotionally exhausted to actually show anything on her face. Alma was still on her mind, and she hadn’t slept well if at all the past two days.

“Lyra won’t be safe with Mrs. Coulter.” Malcolm said, fiercely.

“We all know Marisa here, to a certain degree, and as a former friend of hers, I can attest to that fact. She wants Lyra for a reason, and that reason has to do with the CCD, I’m certain of it.”

“Do we know what that reason might be?” Nugent asked, solemnly. There was a quiet moment, then, and Dorothea wished that silence would continue for at least another hour.

Bud cleared his throat, much to her annoyance.

“It has to do with the witches’ prophecy, doesn’t it?”

Dorothea scoffed again, loud and rudely. She would have felt sorry, but at this point her mood was getting worse and worse.

“I didn’t think you were so skeptical of the hidden things, Dottie. You usually have unorthodox opinions.” Nugent laughed, and she rolled her eyes at him. “You should be more open-minded.”

“I _am_ open-minded. I believe in free love and that premarital sex is alright. I believe the ocean moves according to gravity fields cast from the moon. I believe in tangible, fully described and well-explained things.” She scowled, then turned to Hannah, who had a smirk. As her advisor, Hannah was used to Dorothea’s tantrums better than anyone, except maybe Nugent. “The witches spilled some nonsense about Lyra ten years ago, explaining nothing, and then making a target out of her. I am skeptical, because nothing happened so far other than Lyra being hunted down like an animal by those animals! Those mindless women, being all ’Oooh, the moon, the stars!’, well, who fucking cares? What is the use of nature when the CCD agent is dragging you down a basement to be tortured? What is the use of the moon, when the Magisterium is sanctioning another law of censorship? Fuck them, I say, and their prophecies. What good has their prophecy been? It locked Lyra in a college, the only place where she should be safe. The CCD wants Lyra because they’re zealots, and they’d kill that child based on superstition, that is all we need to know.”

She rubbed her face, swallowing the anger, the exhaustion, the doubts she had about everything. When she took her hands of her face again, someone had filled her glass again. Astraeus chirped in gratitude.

“I apologise. I don’t… I don’t feel quite like myself.” She said, sipping at her drink, her voice breaking. There was a headache coming now. _Great, just what I need._

“We’ve had a rough encounter on Sweden, perhaps she should go rest before we discuss what to do about Lyra.” Malcolm said, and for that she was grateful, though she knew Lyra couldn’t quite wait.

“That sounds like a good idea-- Dottie,” Nugent said, standing up and helping her up too, gently. He gave Malcolm a curious glance. “Bud can take you home. You rest, then we’ll discuss the child and Mrs. Coulter.”

“No, no. This cannot wait. Marisa won’t be able to stand Lyra for long. She just isn’t cut out for motherhood, I know it and she knows it too, though she would never admit it. Right now-- you said it has been how long, since Marisa took her? Two weeks, right?” She looked around and they all nodded. “That is not enough, not yet. But give it another two weeks and Lyra will grow restless as she settles in and Marisa will grow impatient too. That will wash way whatever charm she worked on Lyra and give us the opportunity to take her away.”

“You want to kidnap Lyra?”

“Well, yes! If you have another idea I’m all ears.” She straightened herself, breathing out. “But you are right, I need to rest. I’m no use to anyone in this state, anyway. I shall contact you in the morning, Nugent. Hannah, I’ll send my final papers tomorrow afternoon. Malcolm, you’re free to go back to Oxford, we can talk later this week. Bud-- just take me home, for God’s sake.”

As she was making her way to the door, she pulled Malcolm aside.

“Tell Nugent about Alma, and Sweden.” She said, quietly. Hannah was chatting with Nugent, and Bud was putting on his coat, away enough that he couldn’t hear them.

“Everything?” Malcolm asked; she had explained to him, vaguely, about who Alma was and what the Sigil was. He was marvelled and terrified at the same time, but that was expected. Even Dorothea had a wary admiration for that weird group Alma had belonged to. “Even the Sigil part?”

“Yes, everything you know. I’ll tell him the more complex aspects in the morning, I doubt he ever heard of them anyway.” She sighed. “And don’t tell him where to find her. Knowing Nugent, if he thinks this is useful, he won’t rest until he recruits her, and Alma has been harassed enough. She deserves her peace.”

Malcolm nodded, fiercely. Asta purred by his feet, as Astraeus was talking to her.

“Do you think your plan is wise, Dorothea?” He asked, unsure, but she laughed and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Wise? No, but I believe it is necessary to our survival. Don’t tell Nugent about that though, I’ll prepare the groundwork for that idea tomorrow, after I slept for fourteen hours.”

She kissed him goodbye, and after reassuring Hannah she would rest properly, Bud moored her towards the car, helped her with the door and once she was safely seated, he got in and drove away.


	11. perseverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This chapter has a mention to Godwin's tropical fever, and given the vocabulary I used, it might be too close to our current situation and some people might be uncomfortable with it, so I thought it would be proper to warn you first. It's a very small mention to it, but it's here regardless, so a TW seemed needed.  
> Adèle seems to not know much about the Gobblers in the book, so I shifted that here, instead going from a perspective that she knew about them, just enough, and was just pretending not to while she attended the party looking for answer. She's a great character that was wasted in the show, in my opinion, so I'm hoping to bring her back here and there.

_life starts all over again_  
when it gets crisp in the fall  
**f. scott fitzgerald**

“Hello Adèle, take a seat.” Eilhart said, cheerful, shaking the woman’s hand.

They were meeting at one of her favourite restaurants in Westminster, a place popular enough that it had many people during lunch time, but not too over the top to attract the Magisterium high officials. Maybe its less ostentatious clerks, but not important people with important names, that Dorothea so meticulously avoided just because she didn’t like them.

Adèle Starminster took a seat across her, looking radiant and colourful in her white, silky blouse and a lilac long skirt, that suited her dark complexion. She looked young, Dorothea thought, mid-twenties or so, with a fire in her eyes and a determined disposition that made an odd pair with her delicate butterfly daemon.

They made polite, formal conversation, as if Adèle was preparing the ground for an in-depth interview with Eilhart, and she was good at that game of pretending, except for here and there when her eyes darted over a table a little further away, where Adèle’s colleague, Anita, was having a pleasant lunch with her boyfriend, Bud Schlesinger. Bud saw them looking, and gave them a quick nod; they were supposed to just casually be sharing the same restaurant, purposefully on accident.

“I thought I was supposed to meet with Mr. Schlesinger-- not that you’re not good company, Lady Eilhart, it’s just-- this wasn’t expected, that’s all.” Adele said, finishing her white wine.

“It’s alright, you _were_ supposed to meet him, but we decided that I should be your… liaison, so to speak. Given my relationship with Mrs. Coulter.” Dorothea closed the menu, and asked for their dessert, before looking back at Adèle. “But he already had reservations so I just told him to have lunch with Anita instead. A good cover story to have you both at the same place, at the same time.”

“What can you tell me about Mrs. Coulter?”

Dorothea had made a tidy list of things to guide Adèle through, starting from what her goal was: to find out what she could about the Oblation Board. Nugent had decided that they shouldn’t approach Lyra without knowing what exactly did the CCD and other bodies of the Magisterium wanted with her, in case Marisa endangered her. Dorothea disliked that cautiousness, but she knew he was right. There was no way of knowing if Marisa intended to harm Lyra, but if she did, trying a blunt operation could hasten the process.

“So, you want me to just stand around all night?” Adèle’s displeasure with the situation was just as palpable. “That’s not much of journalism work.”

“No, it is not, I know. That is much more intelligence work, but alas you are our last resort. I mean that in a good way, we would rather not endanger you because you’re too valuable, but this time we will have to use you. You were the one invited, after all.”

“Well, anything you need, I suppose.”

The waiter came, and replaced their dirty plates with their dessert. Adèle picked up her spoon, then carefully put it down again. Dorothea could tell she was anxious and Astraeus, perched on the table, tried to smooth talk the butterfly. Despite her friendship with Oakley Street, she was more like an informant than a field agent; she wasn’t exactly trained for that sort of thing. “Do you think I might get recognised?”

“As a journalist, you mean? It’s possible, but I wouldn’t worry too much.” Dorothea took a spoonful of ice, watching as Adèle watched her, curiously. _She’s trying to understand me,_ she thought amused, _Good luck with that_. “Those people around Marisa don’t tend to read the sort of thing you write, especially your newfound disposition to write about police inefficacy and the parliament’s neglect of people and their freedom. It reminds them that the world is not actually working properly, but they enjoy hiding in their little world.”

“So, you’d say it’s safe?”

“Safe?” She put her spoon down, and patted her mouth with the napkin before proceeding. “That’s a strong word to use. If you keep to yourself and don’t overstep your invitation - you are someone else’s plus one after all - I suppose you will be safe enough. There is no reason why you shouldn’t be. Marisa is very... civilised.”

Adèle let out her breath, at last; she might have been holding it for a while now. She then took her spoon and began to eat to hide her anxiety. She was eager too, underneath that veil of nervousness, but alas it was the anxiety which was showing. Astraeus flew back to Dorothea’s shoulder.

“I think they’re on board, but they don’t seem to think there’s much in for them out of this risky situation.” He whispered in her ear.

She agreed, with everything. Adèle wanted to be at the party, most of all, because she was writing a piece on the General Oblation Board for the newspaper she worked for, and having the opportunity to step inside the GOB’s director’s house was quite a feat. Oakley Street was using her because she had been invited after all; except now, they were asking her to simply not to do her job very thoroughly, to preserve her life and that of a child she had no vague idea about. It wasn’t very fair, Dorothea knew.

“What could happen if Mrs. Coulter figures who I am?”

“There are too many scenarios for us to predict, but in the event she realises you are a journalist, you might want to play the card of not being there for work, but only if you’re confident you can lie well. Don’t try it otherwise, she’s very clever.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “On the other hand, she might not even address you, even if she finds out about your job. Marisa likes the attention, and if all you do is enjoy the party, you’ll see she is very good at causing a good impression. She’ll likely expect you to write some article praising her and her party.”

“You seem to know her very well, Lady Eilhart.”

“Not well enough, I think, but I’ve known her for a long time. We went to college together. You could say we were friends, maybe.”

“But you’re not invited to her party.” Her remark was genuinely interested, but it made Dorothea laugh because it sounded too sassy.

“And that hurts my feelings _immensely._ ” Dorothea mocked; Adèle chuckled. “I could show up uninvited, of course. She wouldn’t send me away, it wouldn’t look good, but again, we are afraid of any blunt solutions because it could endanger the girl. Besides, I have another commitment that evening, so I cannot attend anyway.”

“I see. This girl, who is she?”

Dorothea thought that was the hardest question she had to answer so far. Adèle was young enough that she wouldn’t remember the court trial and all the scandal, or if she did, it was nothing more than a mere remnant of memory. She would have been too young to care about a lord and a married woman’s ordeal. Dorothea envied her; she wished she could forget all that, or simply stop overthinking the small mistakes that led to the moment they were now.

“Lyra is Lord Asriel’s daughter.” She sighed. “Well, she is also Mrs. Coulter’s daughter, though I’d advise you against saying that out loud or at all.”

“They’re related? You’re kidding me.”

“Believe me, I wish I was, but it’s true. Mrs. Coulter’s affair with Lord Asriel ended badly and Lyra was a product of it, a product Marisa abdicated eleven years ago, though I can’t explain why the sudden interest in the girl now.”

“Maybe she had a change of heart.”

“Yes, it’s possible, except I know Marisa and I find that very unlikely.” Dorothea sneered, a little displeased, but brushed those feelings aside. Did she really _know_ Marisa, though? She found that doubt odd. “Nevertheless, she has the girl now, and we have an interest in her and her safety. So, if you see Lyra, we would appreciate if you could tell us if she’s safe and well cared for, but try not to engage her. Marisa gets defensive very fast, especially concerning the affair and everything.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Tell her about the secret.” Astraeus whispered, and Dorothea nodded while she waved at the waiter.

“Right. Yes, one more thing: Lyra doesn’t know who her real parents are and if you fancy your existence - and your job - you will be careful not to give that away in any way. Believe me, Mrs. Coulter--” she added, then made a pause to ask the waiter for the check. As he walked away, she turned back to Adèle who looked at her, surprised. “Mrs. Coulter hasn’t told the girl about it for a reason and whatever that is, your job is not worth more than that. So, be careful.”

“I will, I promise.”

Dorothea paid the tab, and she told Adèle to leave first. She did, and a minute or two later, Bud and Anita followed. She watched through the crystal windows as the two women walked away. Bud was waiting outside, for Dorothea no less. So, slowly, she made her way to him.

Winter was closing in now, two weeks since she arrived from Sweden, and the weather was crisp and dry and cold as hell. She and Bud made their way to his car, parked across the street, and the moment he started the engine, she turned on the heat, though that hardly was of any help.

“How did it go?” He asked, cheerful. She rejoiced in his good mood, despite it not being enough to quiet all the incessant doubts in her head.

“She isn’t very happy with the idea of cautiousness, but she accepted our terms.”

“You don’t seem happy, though.”

She didn’t answer immediately, instead resting against the seat, and watching the landscape as he made his way back to his apartment. There were many things she wasn’t happy about: her college papers were again late; Asriel was in prison, buried underneath so much bureaucracy that she could barely find a way to talk to him, let alone help him. That very morning she received two telegrams, from different parts of the world, and both were alarming.

It was all a blur, and it was taking its toll on her and Bud seemed to have noticed, because he poked her arm, playfully, as he made his way across the main avenue, the streets now filled with people coming and going, by foot, bicycle or car.

“I’m never happy, am I?” She whispered, then sighed, as her daemon and Bud’s owl were perched on the back seat, chatting and flying low, playing. “I am worried for Adèle, and for Lyra. And for Asriel-- you get the gist of it.”

“I do, but you shouldn’t worry for Adèle, she knows the risk. Wasn’t this whole lunch thing meant for you to clarify to her what we expect of her?” He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. Dorothea nodded. “Then she knows what to expect, she knows the risk and accepts it.”

“True, but I worry all the same. I’m not cut out for managing people, I care too much.”

He laughed. “And here I thought you had no feelings at all.”

“Not funny.” She said, but she laughed, a little tired and a little less sad. He was right; Adèle knew the risks, there was no point in dwelling in theories of what could be.

“As for Asriel, you shouldn’t worry either. He is used to getting into trouble and I can’t think of a situation in which he couldn’t talk his way out of it.”

“I can think of a few, including the ones where _I_ ended up helping him. This time I’m afraid I might not be able to do that.” She rubbed her eyes, then pressed her fingers against her own shoulders. Her wounded shoulder was beginning to hurt again, as it often did when the weather changed; she dreaded the nights she would spend on morphine, sweating, high and incoherent, while the world crumbled around her. _There is no time for that now_ , she thought. While Lyra and Asriel were stranded and separated, she would have to keep her senses sharp because she was needed. Well, she _felt_ needed, but to her those concepts were one and the same.

“It’s not your fault. The other side simply found a foolproof way to get to Asriel, they knew what they were doing.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t reassure me. It just points out what we already knew.” She scowled, more to herself than to him. “They have far more influence than we first considered. To have dealings with the armoured bears, I mean, that’s a far reach if I’ve ever seen one. And it’s not the arrest that concerns me, it’s their reason. Why would the bears help the Magisterium? That king of theirs is a piece of work, but he still has very little to gain from helping them.”

“They’re doing better than us, that’s for sure.” He murmured. Dorothea closed her eyes, feeling the soft hum of the car. The silence felt friendly, almost comfortable, but she sensed Bud’s uneasiness, or maybe it was just his tension while he pondered the best way to ask her something. “You know, we could use some friends within the Magisterium.”

 _There we go_ , she thought; the way he said it, so senselessly polite, made her laugh. She had been wondering when he was gonna ask about that.

“Yes, we _could_.”

She side eyed him, as Bud tightened his grip on the steering wheel, breathing out, then breathing in; it was funny to watch his diplomat persona at work, figuring out the best way to ask an indelicate question without offending her.

“Like that friend of yours.”

“Ah. Yes, my _friend._ ” She chuckled. “The way you say it makes the whole thing sound much more ominous than what it was.”

He waited, patiently, for her answer, which took her a while to prepare.

“Unfortunately, he cannot help us. He cannot be trusted.”

“Well, you slept with him. How can you not trust him?” There was only a hint of criticism in his tone, but that was enough to make her frown.

“Trust has nothing to do with it.”

He scoffed. “I think it has _everything_ to do with it.”

“Bud, I love you, but you’re a fucking prude. It’s been almost a year, let it go.” She scorned him, and he snorted, amused. “What is it?”

He looked at her, amused.

“When are _you_ letting go?” He said, with a cheeky smile. “You hide that man as if your life depended on it.” She dropped her arms, and Astraeus stared at the owl, inconspicuously. She looked away, embarrassed.

“I have the tendency to overthink things, you know that.”

“Well, then what is the harm in telling me his name, age and career of choice?”

“Nice try.” She laughed. “I haven’t seen nor spoken to him in almost a year. I don’t like to think about it, and he cannot help us, he _won’t help us,_ so just give up.”

Bud opened his mouth to retort, but they were getting close to his apartment, so he decided to drop the matter. Dorothea sighed, then rubbed her eyes to brush away the weariness she was feeling. Ever since her return to London, after meeting Alma, she had been on edge. Having a tantrum every two or three hours, for random reasons, that sometimes were outright ridiculous, and she had spent the last two weeks apologising for her wretched behaviour. Bud was used to her volatile mood, so Nugent entrusted him to bring her around whenever he was doing Oakley Street business, to make sure she wouldn’t yell at some poor soul for no reason. More importantly, however, to make sure she wouldn’t try to do anything too crazy, like kidnapping Lyra, for example.

Her conversation with Nugent about Alma and the Sigil had been fruitful, even though she knew he was skeptical of her plan. She didn’t take it personally, after all; Nugent only really trusted Oakley Street, and even then, he didn’t really trust them, just enough to keep the work flowing. Trust was the sort of thing he couldn’t afford in his work, he had told her once, and Dorothea thought that was the stupidest thing she had ever heard. She didn’t blame him, of course, he was a product of his time, but she knew better and it was why she dedicated everything she could to ensure Glenys Godwin’s position as the new director. Godwin was exceptional in her work, but politics were politics, as Dorothea constantly reminded her, before going behind her back and whispering at the right place and annoying Nugent about it constantly. Godwin had everything Oakley Street needed: patience, intelligence, open-mindness, and she was capable of compassion, which was in itself an improvement from Tom Nugent’s ruthlessness.

Dorothea’s brazenness had already landed Marcel Delamare in a position of considerable, though relatively small, power and influence, she knew it was time to reconsider her ways. So, she decided to do that by rebuilding the Sigil and providing their influence to Oakley Street; in other words, she decided to build her own network. It was the sort of thing that would teach her patience, as well as allow her to continue to help Oakley Street in a way that wasn't fully tied to them. They were in dire need of a steady and trustworthy line of information and communication and the Sigil, or whatever was left of it, was perfect for that.

“You said you got a telegram today.” Bud remarked, searching for his keys at the door.

“Yes. Two of them, both very ominous. One from Godwin’s, one from my _other_ friend, in Sweden.” She said, in a mocking tone, and Bud offered her a sly smile.

“You’re overthinking it.” Astraeus said to her, and she straightened her coat, as she leaned against the wall waiting for him to open the door. Dorothea nodded at her daemon, pondering about what to do. Alma was essential to everything, but in her state, daemonless and drowning in melancholia, there was very little to be done. Her telegram had been slightly hopeful, at least, though Dorothea would have to do a lot of research if she wanted to help Alma with her problem, which was not small feat at all.

“So,” Bud said, snapping his fingers in front of her and gesturing for her to come inside. She shook her head out of that haze. “What were the telegrams about?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Telegrams.” She said, as Astraeus landed on the top of her head. “Alma said she is interested in my proposition, to be part of Oakley Street, that is.”

“Well, that’s good news, not ominous at all.”

“She said she is going to look for her daemon, seems to have an idea of where he is.”

“Oh, right. That’s… that’s good, isn't it? I can’t imagine how she must feel, lonely like that. I think of the house you said she lives in, all broken and cold and abandoned.” He said, shaking his shoulders before pouring himself a drink and another for Eilhart, who sat on his couch, slouching. He had a somber expression on his face. “At least that man we met in New York was just separated, you know. Alma is just straight up abandoned. It’s what’s eating you up, inside, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. To think she is all alone there, literally, it keeps me up at night. And her daemon…” She sighed, feeling exhausted. “I’m sorry, Bud. It’s not fair to drop these things on you. It’s bad enough that you have to drag me along with you because I’m behaving like a child, I shouldn’t spook you with such discussions.”

“Nonsense, Thea. But I think you need to get some proper rest and soon.” He suggested and Dorothea breathed out, slowly. “Call in your doctor, ask for some medicine. You don't look so well.”

“No, no. I can handle this just fine.”

“Thea--”

“No. I’m already on morphine for the shoulder, I cannot live with drugs, especially not now, with everything going crazy.”

“Well, if you say you can handle it--” 

“It’s fine, Bud, I mean it.” Dorothea shrugged. She stretched her neck this way and that, to relieve the tension she was feeling, but it was nowhere near enough. “The other telegram I got is from Godwin. It’s her son, the boy is sick with some weird fever. It’s an outbreak down there, things seem… well, they seem bad.”

“Sickness tend to be healed, eventually. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“True, but the death ratio of this fever is ridiculously high. She is worried, Bud, I know. She wouldn’t have written a telegram about it otherwise, we don’t discuss domestics issues unless things are dire.”

“What did she say, then?”

“That his symptoms are from the early stage of the fever, and that they are hopeful this will increase the efficacy of the cure. They’re anxious, and so am I.”

“Have a little faith, Thea.”

She scoffed, taking another sip from her glass. “Faith doesn’t save lives, science does, which is ironic when you see all the censorship the Magisterium has put in scientific progress for the past decades. I have _faith_ in science, I do, but the cure for this fever is still very experimental. It’s a relatively new disease, they’re in over their heads.”

Bud knew better than to argue with her when she began to ramble about scientific progress, so she just let her vent, enjoying his drink in the comfortable and warm apartment. She was grateful for that, the heat and his understanding, because that was all she needed at the moment. When she stopped talking, they enjoyed each other’s company in mutual sulking, until Bud stood up to get them another drink.

“What do you think Asriel has found out to trigger the Magisterium like he did?” Bud asked. “Maybe they’re overreacting.”

She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. He looked at her, puzzled.

“Rumours from Jordan say that Asriel asked for funding to investigate a German scholar’s work he had already hijacked. Grolman? Grumman? Something like that. I actually think he's English, but associated with a German university.” She explained, and waited until he was back in the couch before telling him the rest. The reaction was always priceless. “Apparently, according to some of the scholars that were there, Asriel claimed to have found out the source of where Dust comes from.”

Bud whistled, his eyebrows raised, his owl daemon changing stances quickly on his shoulders. “Well, that will do.”

“Yes, that _will_ do. You’d think he would have made my life easier, maybe got involved with something _less_ controversial, but here we are.” She snorted. “The source of Dust! What an asshole!”

“So, d’you think there is any truth to that statement?” Bud raised an eyebrow at her. “You know Asriel well enough, you could tell if he was lying, couldn’t you?”

“Truth? Yes, there _is_ truth. He wouldn’t lie about something of this scope; in fact, it’s just like him to come back, make a fuss and force the Master to incriminate his college before the Church, then set out to make further discoveries on the matter. He had photograms and everything, very dramatic.” She let out a sigh, watching Bud drink vicariously his dark cocktail; she had already finished her second. “I _believe_ that he has found the source of Dust, or at least where it comes from into our lives. They wouldn’t have arrested him otherwise.”

“And Mrs. Coulter? Why is she even involved?”

“I could make a list of reasons that would keep us here all day long, but the truth is Marisa wants to be on the Magisterium’s good side, so she does whatever she thinks will help her please them, and by them I mean the CCD. They’re the ones protecting, so to speak, the Oblation Board.” Dorothea sighed, using her thumb nail to scratch her forehead. “She also specialised in Dust, it’s her subject of study inside the GOB and outside of it. It fascinates her; hell, it fascinates anyone who has ever read about it. This is hardly the time for theories, but for practicalities, Asriel of all people should have known that, yet here we are.”

“You’re becoming cynical.” Bud jested.

“I am getting old. Aging tends to do that to you.” She said, with a faint grin.

Dorothea knew it wasn’t old age that was gnawing at her soul. She hadn’t thought much of Marcel in the months after their affair in Geneva, but she had thought, copiously and tirelessly, about what he had said to her. _Idealism can only take you so far_. Slowly and methodically, that had taken root in her mind, and she watched as she began to drift within herself, feeling Astraeus’s outrage at her nonsense and cynicism, sensing the eternal feeling of failure that her work for Oakley Street brought. No matter what they did, nothing seemed to change or when it did change, something else some place else needed to be fixed as well. It was like an ever ending story of maintenance

She loathed the idea, but deep down, she could hear her instincts begging her for a change. They would have to, or otherwise, they would continue to lose.

*******

Bud had expected a quiet evening, two weeks later, when he parked his car a block before Mrs. Coulter’s building. He was far enough that he couldn’t tell who was getting into the building, but he could see them getting in, which was useful enough.

He had left Adèle, an hour ago, at her pair’s house, so they could go to the party together, then proceeded to stop his car and pick up his reading of Dorothea’s report on the Sigil. It was a thorough and complex reading, in which she compiled every ounce of information she had on that shady organization that Bud had never even heard of, though that wasn’t surprising. The Sigil, as Dorothea so thoughtfully put in her report, was a group formed within universities, libraries, Academia in general, definitely not Bud’s alley.

“ _They are also incredibly well-connected, and a considerable amount of members are assumed to have survived the purge._ ” He read to his daemon, who was perched over the panel, slightly sleepy. Night was beginning to envelop the sky, but they were relatively close to a lamplight, so a cool, white light was slowly lighting them up. Bud whistled, discontented. “She used the word _purge_ . Those poor people… _damn_.”

“Do you really think they were… purged?” His owl said, quietly. “Dorothea is known for exaggerating.”

“Not in her reports, she’s very careful about them. Maybe she means ‘multiple arrests’, a few accidents here and there. I can’t imagine the CCD killing so many people without consequences. Mass murder tends to make people displeased.”

“If they do it quietly, they could get away with it.”

"There’s only so many ways to forge an accident."

Dorothea’s enterprise was very complex, as he read on, and absolutely madness. The idea that a whole secret society had been spread around the world, sharing secrets, cultivating a network of information, all the while just seamlessly merging with scholars and scientists, doing mundane things, completely unnoticed, was enough to make Bud shiver. It wasn’t entirely unlike Oakley Street, except they had government support and they had someone to report to, while the Sigil was completely independent from any government bodies. The potential for a mess was far too big, and now Eilhart was trying to revive it…

“I don’t think she can.” His owl whispered. He wanted to agree; she was far too impatient for that sort of thing, too reckless as well, but he also knew she was stubborn and from what he gathered in the report, she had been reaching out everywhere, using every ounce of influence she had, every contact available. She was devoted to that cause.

“They don’t even know _how_ the group got caught.”

“Could be a mole.”

“Yeah, that’s what I think too.” He hummed, and put the file back in the glove compartment, and turned on the radio to a soft tune. Her final words in the report were that a few cells have survived in Eastern Europe, as well as the Americas and in the Austral Empire. Apparently, the Sigil was known by different names depending on the native language of the country the group was placed, so they were hard to track, even for someone like the Magisterium and their immense resources. “She said some members were caught, one by one, slowly, then charged with random crimes, like fraud or assault or corruption; others were killed in accidents, muggings, a random robbery-gone-wrong murder. By the time they realised what was happening, the Magisterium had surrounded the main groups in Western Europe. But for them to know about the Sigil, they had to have an inside source, even an unwilling one.”

“Was there a group in London?” His daemon flew to his shoulder, as the heater in the car wasn’t doing a great job of keeping them warm.

“I think so. She was _invited_ to this group, it must have been a London group, or maybe an Oxford one, I don’t know.” He rested against the seat, his hands behind his back; his owl flew to his shoulder then, a little annoyed with the sudden movement. “Though, the city is not on her list of contacts. At least, it’s not in the report. I have a feeling she doesn't like to talk about it.”

“So they were all arrested.” She sounded sad.

“Or killed, but yes, something like that.”

They stood in silence for a while, enjoying the music and the crisp, soon-to-be Winter air. Light was barely visible in Mrs. Coulter’s penthouse, but if he tilted his body just enough, he could see some people in the terrace, dark spots against the dark sky and the warm, yellow light coming from there. If everything went smoothly, Adèle would leave with the man who had invited her and Bud would drop by at her place later, to get in the information she had gathered. Dorothea, however, had insisted that he went there and stayed close, just in case something went wrong, but the way she said it and how she was absolutely adamant that someone should provide support during that evening, showed clearly that she knew something was bound to go wrong.

“You do know _why_ she is reviving this… this secret agency, don’t you?” His daemon asked, solemnly.

“Yeah, she’s trying to strengthen us.”

“Sure, but she has no intention of binding them to Oakley Street, Astraeus told me. This is a backup plan, Bud. She’s preparing for the worse.”

He hummed, acknowledging what she said, but not wanting to dwell on it. It was too ominous to think about it in the middle of the street, while watching a pro-Magisterium person’s party.

Bud crossed his arms over his chest, starting to feel comfortable, his daemon nested on his lap. The cold was beginning to fade, or in fact, he was slowly falling asleep, drifting into nothingness as the radio played on. The weight of sleepiness was almost entirely over him, if not absolutely over him, when there was a harsh knock on his window.

He snapped out of it, feeling his jaw heavy and his eyes sandy, so he looked outside and saw the nervous silhouette of Adèle, knocking again and again, shifting her stance, looking back at Mrs. Coulter’s building, though the street was empty. He opened the passenger door for her, and she circled the car, fast and anxious.

“What happened?” He asked; Adèle had her hands covering her face, heavy breathing; she looked a little disheveled, as if she had run really fast.

“She figured out I was there investigating her or something, threatened me.” She mumbled, her daemon flying aimlessly, as the owl tried to soothe her with kind words, perched on the panel again. "I had to leave. I didn't want to stick around and watch her ruin my career."

“Clever. How did she figure you out?”

She sighed, resting against the seat, her finger brushing her forehead.

“I might have spoken to the girl, asked her a few questions.”

“We explicitly told you not to!” Bud frowned, but Adèle shrugged. If she had been Dorothea's contact, he would have laughed and said that it was suitable that Adèle didn't respect the rules and conditions of an operation, but she was _his_ contact, so that wasn't very good.

“She was right there, talking about Gobblers, what was I supposed to do?” She argued. Her butterfly daemon finally rested on her hand, her little wings twitching. “I thought she might know something, living so closely to Mrs. Coulter, you know.”

“Well?” Bud said, raising his eyebrows.

“She doesn’t know anything, of course. Only the common sense jabber, she’s a child after all.” She sighed, rubbing her face. “I did have time to ask her about her life there. She seems healthy, well-cared for, a little wary of Mrs. Coulter when she interrupted us, but fine, I imagine.”

“Lucky you, that might actually soften the blow of Dorothea's scolding.”

“She was serving drinks at the party, though. Introduced herself as Mrs. Coulter's assistant.” Adéle said, watching Bud start the car engine, then put on his seat belt. “Why would her mother do that to her?”

“Maybe don’t mention that in your report.” It would just anger Dorothea and that was the last thing they needed at the moment.

Adèle began to tell him, as he drove away, everything she learned at the party, which wasn’t much. The GOB was receiving funding on several different fronts, but that had been expected, as Mrs. Coulter alone could not afford to fund it. He listened patiently; it hadn’t been a very fruitful evening, but Adèle had heard something about the Commissioner that was useful, at the very least. He seemed to have been feeling pressured by both sides and was beginning to have doubts about his lenience to the Oblation Board. _Good_ , Bud thought as he drove across the city, _That gives us an opening to deal with him - or to get rid of him._

Five minutes after Bud left with Adèle, in the car, Lyra came out of Mrs. Coulter’s building, running as if her life depended on it.


	12. all new, faded for her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Long chapter, you know the drill at this point. It's just courtesy to warn you at this point lol  
>  **A few disclaimers:**  
>  While I did some research to give Dorothea a proper title, I might have mistaken something and accidentally build the story wrong because I remembered my research wrong lmao In our world, the Marquessate of Winchester is the oldest in England that still exists, but it's also the only one that does not have a higher title, usually a Duke, and that kind blew my story, as you'll read eventually, so I took some liberty with it in Lyra's world. I have no knowledge of nobility, I did some basic research, so a lot of what I say here could be entirely wrong as titles go, but personally I think that given all the canon I use and references, I deserve to get away with this slip lmao  
>  **Secondly,** I use America in the text, but while usually people associate America with the US territory, I use it in Lyra's world to actually refer to the whole continent, South, Central and North. This is gonna happen often in the story, but I'll always put up a reminder here and there. This not only has to do with me being slightly petty lol but also because in Lyra's world the US doesn't exist in its full form, and they are either known as New Dane or Texans and maybe New French, depending on the length of the territory. So Americans stand for all the Americas residents, while US citizens are referred by the above.  
> Thank you for the nice feedback, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

_hatred is by far the longest pleasure;_   
_men love in haste, but they detest at leisure._   
**lord byron**

The moment Dorothea got off the staircase to the theatre entrance, she saw them and regretted coming, but it was already too late to turn back, for Marisa had seen her and waved, ever so graceful. Beside her was Lord Boreal, looking exceptionally tidy, his daemon’s snake head popping off the sleeve of his tuxedo, shimmery and glamorous; talking to her, his back turned to the entrance, was another man in another tuxedo, less glimmery than Boreal’s, and for a moment Dorothea paid him no attention, until Astraeus recognised the slim feathers of the snowy owl, who was perched on the man’s shoulder. She felt her stomach lurch, and suddenly her hands were cold, but it was almost winter, so it could have been just the wind.

Marcel didn’t turn to see whom Marisa had waved at, ever so composed and uninterested. Dorothea began to realise Marisa’s invitation to the theatre had been a ploy all along, though she had no other choice but to come; it wasn’t openly known, but through rumours here and there and the sudden activity of the CCD searching for a missing girl through London - where plenty missing girls were to be found - she had come to the conclusion that Lyra was missing, for three or four days, at least. She would have laughed at Marisa’s ability to lose her own daughter, if she wasn’t worried about the girl herself, and the only reason she had accepted that invitation, which she had already assumed was an attempt to know about Lyra, was because she had hoped to learn something from Marisa.

She wasn’t counting on Marcel’s presence, however, and that froze her for a few seconds, before she finally decided to play it cool and dumb. She stood before Marisa, and Marcel stood beside his sister, and Dorothea let her eyes linger on them for a moment, while she smiled and shook Boreal’s hand.

While separated, one would never have guessed that they were siblings, let alone twins, but together, side by side, they looked like they had come into the world like a matching pair. They had the same smile and eyebrows, and the same glittery eyes and puzzling expression; Marisa was a little taller than he was, despite her heels, and Marcel already had some grey hair popping up at his temples, while Marisa looked immaculate and pristine and the very definition of youth. _When they’re sixty_ , Dorothea thought, _she’s gonna look forty and he’s gonna look… alright, I suppose._

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in a public event, Lady Eilhart.” Boreal was saying, pleasant, delightful, insufferably polite, though aside from Marcel who probably guessed it, everyone there knew Dorothea disliked him and it was mutual. She smiled though, as if compliant in his crime of being petty.

“I’ve been busy with college business.”

“I heard you’re almost done with your doctorate. Congratulations.” Marisa’s tone showed a hint of disdain that usually Dorothea would have ignored, but somehow that got under her skin. She thanked Marisa, instead of arguing though, as Astraeus whispered:

“Don’t pick a fight, think of Asriel and Lyra. They need us.”

“You look delightfully civilised tonight, I might add.” Boreal said, and Astraeus chirped annoyed, but Dorothea chuckled.

“Oh, I wish I could return the compliment, Boreal.”

“Always so prickly, Dorothea. What would your father say if he saw you behaving like this?” Boreal said, snappy, his daemon making turns on his wrists, between his fingers; his other hand was on Marisa’s small back, which made her grit her teeth. _Good_ , Dorothea thought, _you deserve to squirmish a bit._ “He’d probably die of distaste.”

“Well, lucky for me, he is already dead so I don’t have to worry about that, don’t you say?”

“Unpleasant, but true.” Boreal nodded, then turned to Marcel. “Her father was a great supporter of the Magisterium, he helped welcome the CCD in England.”

“So I heard.” Marcel’s short response didn’t seem to discourage Boreal from his pointless rant, so Dorothea stepped in.

“A true hero, oh yes.” She said, sarcastically, and Boreal sighed, though his smile remained impassive. _All snakes here_ , she thought while considering every one of them. She included herself in that remark, though she considered herself a good snake.

“His daughter, on the other hand, squanders all her talent and influence on petty and meaningless things.” Boreal added, a sly smile on his face, though it was clear his commentaries were not having the desired outcome, as Marcel didn’t seem to be impressed and Marisa was hardly paying attention. “I suppose some people just are what they are. I did enjoy your company far better when you were younger though, meek little thing you were, quiet as a mouse.”

She glanced over Marcel for a moment and saw that he was watching everything with an amused expression, his hands on his pockets; his owl though, was leaning to the monkey, who was hanging from Marisa’s shoulder and they were whispering, quietly, quickly. _Are they talking about me? Or Lyra?_ Dorothea’s mind was very much split from paying attention to that, careful not to be obvious about it, and talking to Boreal.

Dorothea smiled, though it looked more as if she was baring her teeth at him.

“I’m sure you did. It’s not a surprise you were always around; father’s presence tended to elevate the status of everyone around him, even minor lords like you, Boreal.”

His smirk twitched, as he found himself at a loss of words; then he saw someone and waved, then turned to Marisa, his fingers lingering on her elbow. “Marisa, dear, I shall speak with Mr. Graham, I won’t be a moment.”

He left the three of them so he could speak with a man who was about to enter the theatre room; Dorothea turned her gaze back to Marisa, who was saying something to Marcel in French, then he scoffed. She didn’t quite get what she said.

“You shouldn’t be so nasty to Boreal.” Marisa said, turning to her, pleasant and lively and sweet, as if they were still undergraduates at St. Sophia’s, as if she wasn’t the head of such a nasty Magisterium group. Astraeus reminded Eilhart to keep to herself, as she didn’t know how much Marisa was aware about her knowledge of the Gobblers. “He is my patron, after all.”

“He started it!” Dorothea scowled, and Astraeus flew from one shoulder to the other, restless, trying to avoid the owl’s gaze. 

“It’s not a pettiness contest, you know,” Marisa jested. “You can just ignore him, though that wouldn’t be as fun, I suppose. Nevermind Boreal, though, this is Marcel Delamare. He is my brother.”

Marcel offered her his hand, formal, polite, like they were barely acquaintances and she realised immediately that he hadn’t told Marisa anything about them. In fact, the way she had phrased her words made it seem like she was expecting Dorothea to be shocked, so she put on her best surprised expression, as she held his hand, mildly cold, and nodded courteously. Astraeus greeted the owl in the most nonchalant way he could find, which wasn’t super good but was enough to hide from the monkey’s keen eyes.

“We met briefly in Geneva, a year ago or so.” He said, uninterested, and Dorothea simply nodded and followed along his charade. Marisa watched them with a lively interest, as if she was expecting something to combust.

“Oh, yes! Right, yes. I’m sorry. How do you do?” She put her hands back in her pockets, and straightened her coat as every time the entrance glass doors were opened, a gush of cold wind swept in and made her shiver. Marisa’s burgundy dress had long sleeves, and she was carrying her coat in her hands, but Dorothea thought she was feeling cold as well. “I don’t understand, Marisa. With all the company you have, why did you invite me as well?”

“Oh, it was meant to be just the two of us at first, but then I heard that Marcel was in town, so I decided to bring him with us.” Marisa’s grin was uncanny and slightly disturbing, but Dorothea ignored it, as that was the best way to avoid its effect. Somewhere in that speech was a lie, Dorothea sensed it, but couldn’t tell where it was. “You’re always complaining about my so secretive background, so here you are, my own brother at your disposal!”

“What about Boreal?”

Marisa sneered, though not too much. “He invited himself, as expected.” She sighed, watching Boreal talking to an elderly man Dorothea recognised as a conservative, pro-Magisterium MP. “Unfortunately, Boreal got us a very exclusive set of seats, which means that you’ll have to keep Marcel company during the play, then we can go have dinner afterwards. We have things to discuss, as I’m sure you know.”

“This wouldn’t happen to be about Lyra, would it?”

Marisa’s smile faltered, for a moment, but her eyes had a steady, stern expression. The monkey changed his place in her shoulders, a little restless. Marcel observed them with his typical, usual casual apathy.

“I don’t expect you to share with me anything about the girl, as I am very aware you are and always have been loyal to Asriel.” Marisa said. “Though, if you know something, it would be in Lyra’s best interest if you told me or the authorities about it.”

Dorothea smiled, cooly.

“Even if I did know about her, I wouldn’t do that, as you so well said before. This has nothing to do with Asriel; you know very well I have always been on neutral ground regarding the two of you.” Dorothea said. “Now, I _do_ have Lyra’s best interest at heart, so if you were to tell me what exactly happened, I could help you locate her.”

“And then you would send her straight back to Jordan!”

“Her rightful place and home.”

“Her rightful cage, more likely.” Marisa scoffed. “Have you met her? Have you seen the state of her? They barely wash her! I thought you of all people would understand that, having been locked up for half your life by your wretched father.”

“That’s not a fair comparison. They care for her there. You could have raised her, but you denied her eleven years ago, so you might as well deal with it. Your daughter is lost in London now, as far as I’m aware, the Gobblers might as well have snatched her!”

“That’s preposterous!”

“Marisa.” Marcel said, in a warning tone, as they were beginning to raise their voices. “This is a public place. Perhaps the two of you can settle this later, without ears and eyes everywhere.”

They stared at each other, neither wanting to give in, but Dorothea knew she should be the one to comply. Marisa still thought of her as a meek, mildly clever woman, and as long as Dorothea planned on maintaining that façade, she would have to let Marisa have the last word in any argument.

“Marcel’s right. We shall discuss this at dinner, later.” She straightened the sleeves of her dress. “Meanwhile, I ask that you keep him company. Or is that too much to ask of you?”

“Well, it would be impolite of me to say no, don’t you think?” She disliked Marisa’s righteous tone, but glanced at Marcel instead, with a soft and amicable smile that she would direct at a friendly stranger or acquaintance, not to a man she knew… not so well, but well enough. “Now, you run along. Go to Boreal, before he comes back here and I punch him in his stupid face.”

Marisa turned around, the monkey in her arms, as she made her way to Boreal and his politician friend. He welcomed her with a bright, dubious smile, that made Dorothea shiver. If anything Marisa had some nerve, because everything about Boreal rubbed her off the wrong way. He wasn’t unattractive, but something about him had her survival instincts awaken fast and clearly.

“You didn’t tell her about us.” She said, and she heard the familiar hum of Marcel’s snickering, as he watched his sister and Boreal make their way to the staircase of the exclusive area.

“Why should I? It has nothing to do with her.” She felt his fingers against her elbow, and when she looked, he was offering his arm to her. “We better get inside. It’s getting late.”

The seats Marisa had gotten them were good enough, and Dorothea sat beside Marcel, while Marisa’s empty seat was beside her. She took a look around, trying to find Marisa on the upper level, and eventually found her, listening to Boreal’s incessant jabbering, with a smile that was very unhappy. She didn’t know for sure if they could see her and Marcel, but at any rate, they couldn’t be heard.

“What did you tell her, then?” Eilhart asked, her daemon perched on her chair’s rest, whispering to the owl at a polite distance. Marcel didn’t look at her, his eyes locked onto the stage, but he smiled.

“Only that we’ve met briefly in Geneva.”

“You’re too pleased with yourself. Why did she invite you tonight?” Dorothea straightened herself in the chair, as the lights dimmed and the play started. They were speaking so quietly she barely could hear his reply. On the corner of her eye, she saw him opening his mouth to reply, a smug expression that she could only see because the colourful lights coming from the stage gave him a soft silhouette in purple, red and orange. “If you say family reunion, I swear in the name of the Authority, I will lose my mind.”

He closed his mouth, smirked, as his daemon found a more comfortable place on his shoulder, listening to Astraeus quiet whisper. Marcel, then, whispered:

“She wants me to charm you.”

Dorothea put her hand atop of her mouth to muffle the snorting sound she made. There was quiet shushing sound from behind her.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“She thinks you know about the girl’s whereabouts, but she knows you won’t tell her, so she wanted me to… _charm_ you, so to speak. A sympathetic stranger, something of that nature.” He said, and Dorothea was about to say something, when he raised his finger over his mouth. “I, naturally, had no idea she meant _you_ , or I wouldn’t have come otherwise, but she only said on the phone that she needed a favour, so I came and here she was with her silly plan. I only learned it was you five minutes before you arrived, and I was about to leave when you did.”

“Why?”

“Well, how am I supposed to charm _you_ out of that sort of information?” He smirked. “Unless, of course, you’d like to be helpful and tell me everything you know.”

“I don’t know where Lyra is.”

“Of course.” He sighed.

“I really don’t. It’s why I came tonight. I was hoping I could probe her for any information she might have.”

“I see. So you’re on a stalemate, and wasting my time on top of that.” She could tell he seemed genuinely irritated, which was funny in some ways. “It’s not like I have a lot of work to do, is it?”

“I am not the one who invited you, believe me, you are the last person I wanted to see tonight.” Dorothea murmured, displeased. “If you’re so unhappy about helping Marisa, why are you even here?”

His silence was of irritation, mostly. He watched the play for a moment, his eyes flickering this way and that, but Dorothea knew better by now, so she watched the owl from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the play, but fully watching them. His jaw got tense, but he finally furrowed his brow and whispered, annoyed.

“It is hard to turn back on one’s family.” He used French, which was a bit unusual, as he prefered to use English when speaking with Eilhart. He hated her accent, she knew, even though it was just out of pettiness, as she spoke his language very well. “I find it difficult to refuse my stupid sister when she asks for help.”

Dorothea chuckled, letting the air out of her nose in a gush.

“I think we finally found some common ground, because I find that very relatable.” She said. “We used to be close friends, or as close as Marisa can handle, before she decided that the Magisterium was a better friend. Then came the Oblation Board, and that was just too much for me.”

“She says you favour your friend Asriel.”

“She made me pick a side when she decided to do all those terrible things. She knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t pick her side.”

“Your side was always someone else’s, not that she knows. She thinks you’re just a very well-connected, but stupid woman, who makes no meaningful friends with the network you have.”

“You don’t intend to tell her the truth, do you? About me, that is.”

“No, I don’t.” His short answers were irritating, but she held back her frustration, hoping she could learn something useful.

“I’d like to know why.”

“Of course you would.”

“Don’t patronise me, Marcel, just tell me why.” There was another shush, so she sunk into her chair, waiting for him to speak.

He went silent again, his arms now crossed over his chest. She could tell he was pondering, the way his lower lip quivered slightly, a crease in his forehead, but all of these could be the shimmering lights at the stage, playing tricks. She was also merely side eying him, which meant she wasn’t fully seeing his face, just glimpses of his expression. And beside all that, Dorothea had learned some time ago that, when dealing with Marcel, she was better off trusting her instincts instead of her perception. He could hide behind a smile or a frown, conceal the feelings showing in his eyes, but her instincts were good and reliable. Whenever he was around, she always felt her guard up, even involuntarily, yet against her better judgement, she always stayed, but her instincts were always right.

“When we were children, Marisa used to get dolls, several of them, while I usually got small trucks or cars or trains. One birthday, we were eight, or nine, Marisa got another silly doll, and I got a book, a very pretty book, with a shimmery hard cover. The story was some morality nonsense, but I really liked the book; it had beautiful illustrations, I carried it with me everywhere, I would just open it to stare at it sometimes.” He said, quietly, in French again; a nostalgic smile was on his face, almost boyish and genuinely amused, but it unsettled Dorothea. Music was loud now, enough to conceal their conversation. “That was my favourite toy, so to speak, and Marisa soon realised it, because I treasured the thing to the point I took it to dinner with me, almost every night. She realised my gift was more pleasant than hers was to her; so, one day, she waltzed into my room, and asked - no, no, she _demanded -_ I let her see the book. I, of course, said no. It was mine, she had no right.”

“Reasonable.” Dorothea mocked, but he didn’t mind her tone at all.

“I thought so too, but then Marisa asked again. _Give me the book_ , she would say, _I want to read it too!_ , and I denied her every time. On her fourth or fifth request, after I said no, she lost her temper, took one of my old wooden trucks and came at me. I had my back turned to her, with the book in my hands, so I didn’t see her coming, but I _felt_ it, yes. She hit me in the head with the toy, twice, opened a tear at the back. You’ve felt the scar once or twice, if you remember.” He went on, his voice almost melodic, hypnotising. She remembered it, far too well. Dorothea felt a shiver down her spine, as she now was looking at him, fully, and saw his eyes locked at the stage, but he was looking far away, she knew.

“There was blood everywhere, some even splattered on the book, stained a good portion of it. She took it from my hands as I began to cry from the shock, then from the pain. She went to her bedroom, sat on her bed, wiped the blood in her hands on her dress - I remember that distinctively, because I heard our mother yelling at her about it, later - and she began to read the book as if nothing had happened. By the time our mother found out what had happened, only in the evening when was time for dinner, the blood coming from me was already dark and dry, though my head was still bleeding. I was dizzy, nearly fainting. She yelled at me, a lot, because I made a mess in the bed, then she yelled at Marisa, a lot more. A doctor came that evening and stitched my head, yet all I could think of was my book. Marisa became bored with it after a while, so she left it at her bed and went to do other things; she’s always been practical, so that wasn’t a surprise. But the blood had stained it badly, beyond cleaning, so our mother threw it away. It was very… upsetting.”

“That is the craziest thing I have ever heard.”

“Yet you miss the point. I learned a valuable lesson that day, a lesson about Marisa destroying all my favourite toys. She’s blunt and impatient, and she fails to think things through, not unlike you, if I may add.” He was back at his bored tone, but he turned his face to look at her, a smirk on his lips. “So, I’m not telling her about your secrets because you are too valuable to me, and Marisa wouldn’t know how to use you and your… skills and knowledge, so to speak, in a proper way. She would ruin you, probably give you to the CCD in exchange for some perks here and there, but alas, she would destroy you, like she destroyed my book.”

“So, I’m your favourite toy, then?” She said, sarcastically, emphasizing her words carefully. He sighed, his owl nudging against his cheek to console him from consorting with such a rude woman, who simply failed to appreciate his intellect. “I am so fucking flattered, thank you, monsieur.”

“Do you always make an effort to be so unpleasant?”

“Only when I’m with you.” She sighed. She hated that in some way, his logic _actually_ made sense. “You know I would never share anything that could harm my friends.”

“Of course. Unlike that book, you are much harder to handle, but it’s not just that. You are well-connected, respected, even loved; I’ve been in London for a day and a half, and your name has come up at least four times, for different reasons, I’ll admit, but still remarkable.”

Dorothea made a soft noise of curiosity, but he didn’t go on. Instead, he focused on the play again, though it wasn’t interesting at all. She was confused, to say the least, but as long as his final message was that he had no intention of sharing her little secret, she was fine with his puzzling speeches.

“He never spoke so openly to us before.” Astraeus whispered to her and that much was very true, though she was skeptical as to why. The way he said those things, his use of French, she was certain he meant every word, and her best guess was that he wanted her to feel empathy for him. He wanted something, for sure, and that was his way of smoothing things down to get her to do it.

“What do you want from me?” She whispered, so quietly he didn’t actually heard her. She leaned in closer, her cheek brushing against his shoulder and repeated her question.

“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that is _your_ problem, isn’t it?” He laughed, very quietly. She straightened herself in her chair, a little offended. She felt the tip of his index finger brushing against the back of her hand, and she should’ve recoiled, even if it was dark and no one would have seen it, but she didn’t do it.

She sighed, instead, letting her mind drift for a moment. Then, it was his turn to lean in on her and whisper:

“That man with Marisa. Who is he, exactly?”

Dorothea turned her head to find Marisa and Boreal on the upper level, but in the dark she could see just glimpses of the monkey’s golden fur on her lap.

“That’s Lord Boreal. Carlo Boreal. He is an Earl, I think, something like that. Very rich, very powerful, very much an idiot.” She sneered, thinking that the dim lights would have hidden it, but he took notice, and let out an amused hum. _The owl_ , she thought, she forgot the owl could see her properly in that dark environment.

“You don’t like him.”

“No, I don’t.”

He waited a while to see if she would elaborate, but she didn’t. That amused, but when Dorothea was concerned, many things were amusing.

“What he said about your father, was that true?” She raised an eyebrow to tell him she was listening. “Is he really responsible for the CCD’s presence here?”

“More like, responsible for their smooth adaptation here. But yes, that’s true.” She rubbed her temples, gently. Dorothea thought it was a mistake to tell him about those things, but it was too late now. Astraeus pinched her ear, lightly. “Father believed that Parliament should comply with the Church, so we could the strengthen the Empire, as he used to say. But the Brytish Empire exists no more, not like it was in the past, so he was just living a delusion. And because of his delusions, we are now surrounded by witless thugs.”

“Boreal mentioned a network. What happened to it?”

“I dismantled it, of course. His inner circle, like he often referred to it, like a megalomaniacal.” She scoffed, Marcel’s fingers brushing against hers, but she didn’t hesitate, despite feeling hot inside. “I remember I met your mother, when I was a child, in one of their little dinners. A beautiful woman, and so mean she might have become my standards for what I can stand from people. Called me a well-dressed little savage.”

“Sounds like mother, indeed.”

“At any rate, all the members from father’s circle were cast out, so to speak, Boreal included. He had to find his own way into the Magisterium after I dismantled the network, which he wasn’t very pleased. Many of them weren’t, but as I realised, father was the glue to a great deal of them.” She finally took her hand away from him, holding it on her lap and tried to ignore his smile. “The ones who actually wanted to be with the Magisterium found a way to do that, anyway, those parasites, but most of them just drifted into different lanes of politics.”

They didn’t speak up until the end of the play, which was far more boring than she expected. When it was over, they made their way out of the room first, and stood by the entrance, with a soft and chilling wind coming by the wide open doors. She had put on her coat again, and was bracing herself against the cold. Marcel put both his hands in his pockets, watching her; she felt his gaze, but didn’t look back, instead scanning the room for Marisa and Boreal, who were certainly taking their time to show up.

“I was wondering-- in fact, I was hoping,” Marcel began and she looked at him, already suspicious, frowning. “you would invite me over. Tonight, perhaps.”

“Ah, and here I thought you didn’t want anything from me.” She offered him a witty smile. A little further, she saw a glimpse of Marisa’s hair.

“I don’t want anything, except to discuss a few things with you.”

“Why?”

“It’s political gossip, so to speak. I thought you’d be interested.”

“Why?” She repeated, her eyebrow raised, her hands in her pockets. He saw her defiance and likely deemed it unnecessary, because he shook his head.

“Don’t be difficult, Dorothea. Just make a decision.”

She looked away, for a moment, but that was futile; Astraeus was already immersed in conversation with the owl, Dorothea was just delaying the inevitable. And he had been right, she _was_ interested in political gossip, especially coming from Geneva. Anything that could help her with Asriel or Lyra.

“ _Fine_.” She let it out, smiling at Marisa and Boreal, who were closing in on them. “My address is on the public listing, but I’m sure you already know where I live. You usually do your homework.”

The four of them finally reunited, Marisa made quite a scene of inviting Dorothea for dinner with them; she really wasn’t in the mood for another round of Boreal’s taunting and Marisa’s wicked jests or Marcel’s thoughtful glances. Those interactions took too much energy off from her. They walked down the stairs, Marisa announcing she was going to the restaurant with Boreal, in his car, and she glanced over to Marcel, almost obscenely obvious. He cleared his throat and said he could make Dorothea company on the way, in a formal tone that would have made her laugh, if she wasn’t so irritated. Instead, she gritted her teeth, as they walked down the entrance stairs.

She was looking for the right way to decline the invitation for dinner, when a photographer called out. Dorothea made the mistake of looking back, and the man was waving, and shouting her name and Marisa’s and Boreal’s, eager and excited, his camera moving this way and that. She should’ve expected that; it was a premiere, after all, and she was known.

“Stop that.” Marcel hissed behind his pleasant expression. She hadn’t realised she was grasping at his arm, her nails burying deep into the fabric of his suit. She relaxed, but only for a moment, as she was thinking of how to decline the photographer, but Marisa’s hand came from the other side, cold fingers against Dorothea’s elbow.

“Oh, it’s just a photogram. Come on, smile!” Her tone had a whole new array of disdain, she knew what she was doing.

Marisa posed, Boreal at her side, Dorothea and Marcel on the other. Eilhart began to panic, ever so slightly, but she smiled, or tried to, as Astraeus perched at the top of her head like he used to do when she was nervous as a child. That was exactly how she felt, like a child again, surrounded by these Magisterium people and their politics and their vicious games, Marcel’s warmth breathing against her, making her dizzy; his sister’s imposing presence, pleasant and powerful and glamourous on the other side.

She wanted to take her hand away from him, but she knew that would only incite people’s curiosity further; if their relationship was so harmless, why would she go to such lengths to hide it, then? So, instead, heeding Astraeus advice, she took a deep breath and tried to smile, pleasant, happy. There was a bright light, suddenly, then everything was over. Marisa and Boreal began to walk away, and so did Marcel, but she allowed her arm to slip away. He noticed, and stopped, his hands on his pockets, looking at her as if she suddenly was worth looking at.

“Excuse me, sir, but what is your newspaper, again, so I can get myself a copy?” She asked, her voice almost faltering, but she gathered her nonsense together and smiled.

The photographer replied, and she almost breathed with relief; it was a small tabloid, too small for anyone to take notice that she had spent the evening with a Magisterium official. _All I care about is my reputation_ , she thought, ashamed, as the man turned away and left, so pleased with his night’s work. Dorothea allowed herself to relax, again, for just a moment, before Marcel whispered in her ear, behind her back, his fingers were cupping her elbow, too close for their own good. 

“Still hiding your dirty little secrets, I see.” She turned to face him, immediately. He knew exactly why she had asked the photographer that and it amused him. Astraeus was right: she was overthinking things way too much. There was no reason for her to worry, no one would have the slightest interest in their affair or whatever that was; he was just a Magisterium official, leader of an obscure organization that had no real influence outside the Church circle.

“I wouldn’t call them _dirty_. You clean yourself up quite nicely.” She brushed his shoulders, patronisingly and he grinned, before they made their way to the car.

They didn’t speak at all in the car, as her driver took them to the restaurant. Marcel was watching outside the window, then when she took a little notebook from her purse to check her schedule for the next day, he watched her, curious. He probably thought she was checking something secret or important or both, and that idea gave her energy to continue the evening.

At the end of the day, she realised, he always had in mind that she was a spy, thus he treated her with extreme caution and that was a delight.

*******

“So she doesn’t know anything?” Marisa asked him, again, and she knew it was irritating him to hear the same thing, again and again, but she wanted him to suffer a bit. Marcel hadn’t told her that he had a fling with Lady Eilhart, and that offended her, as well as irritated her.

“For the third time this evening, Marisa. _No_ , she doesn’t know anything about the girl’s whereabouts.” He said, seated on an armchair at her flat, one ankle over his knee. “It’s like you just _want_ me to get angry at you.”

She scoffed, pacing in the living room, a drink in her hand, the other hand placed on her hip. The monkey watched everything from his spot on the sofa. Marcel crossed his arms over his chest, looking almost pleased with her restlessness. That made her angrier.

Dinner had been more boring than the play they watched, and it was mostly because Boreal’s presence didn’t allow for them to talk so openly. That slight issue was enough for Dorothea to realise, as Marisa assumed, that she wasn’t being as open with Boreal as he imagined. The conversation was awkward and unproductive, at least on Marisa’s account, as Dorothea herself had learned a great deal of things.

Back at their apartment, she questioned Marcel thoroughly, word for word of what the woman had said, and he recited it, again and again, but she still wasn’t satisfied.

“Maybe she lied to you.” She scowled and he snorted, and shook his head, stretching his jaw before speaking. His owl opened her wings, irritated.

“It’s possible, but I’m fairly sure she did not. She is as worried and interested in this… situation as you are. She wouldn’t lie about it to just to spite you.”

“How can you be _so_ sure?”

“Good instincts.” The way he lied irritated her even more, because barely made an effort to do it.

“Oh, I’m sure you spreading her legs has nothing do with it, then.”

He raised his eyebrow, amused.

“Ah, you’ve noticed.”

“It was hard _not_ to notice, she is very fond of her personal space and you were very, very close.”

“Yes, that was careless of me. Well, I suppose this whole night’s secrecy was for nothing.” He joined his fingertips and stared her down. She could tell he was annoyed she had noticed his little exchanges with Eilhart. “But, at least now you know Dorothea has no idea where the girl is. Trust me.”

“I don’t believe it. She _must_ know something.”

“She said the same thing about you. You see, she thought _you_ knew something about it.” Marcel yawned, and rested against his chair.

His smug attitude was infuriating and she wanted to wipe that grin off his face by throwing something at him, but she held back. As children, she would pound him into submission, but the older he got, the less afraid of her he became. _It’s not the aging that did this_ , she thought, bitterly. He began to change after her affair was made public, she realised, and he had lost respect for her.

 _You are a stranger to me now_ , he had said, when she visited him and their mother, five years ago. She had avoided coming home since the whole scandal went up, instead writing and calling home, but eventually her mother made enough of a scene that she simply had to visit. Threats were made, she cried and shouted and made a melodrama out of the whole thing, so Marisa mustered her nerves and went to Geneva, only to be received poorly. Marcel refused to talk to her for days, then just screamed and yelled and resented her for something she knew quite well had deeper roots some place else; Madame Delamare, to her surprise, had watched her with a newfound curiosity, but with their mother being the reason why Marcel was so angry at that small banality Marisa committed, she realised that shouldn’t be surprising. _I don’t recognise you anymore,_ he had yelled one day. As much as he was right, Marisa thought he didn’t have the right to say that out loud.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.” She mocked, and that took away a bit of his smugness.

“What is your point, Marisa?”

“She’s not exactly your type, though I suppose Dorothea has her charms.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Precisely.”

“It’s business.” He moved, resting both feet on the ground. His daemon cooed, displeased.

“Ah, I see. That is how you cope with it. Must be difficult to know you’re not that different from maman or me.”

The monkey reached for her, and she took him in her arms, reluctantly. Marcel’s lips quivered slightly.

“You’re pushing him too hard,” The monkey whispered in her ear, her hair hiding him. “He is going to leave and we need him.”

“Well, you could do worse. She’s pretty enough, though very… rustic, as ladies go.” She jested; he shook his head, though he had his grin back on his face. Marisa felt a bit of relief; it was hard to anger him, though it was harder to get his forgiveness and she needed him to be in a good mood, because she had a favour to ask. “Are you certain she didn’t lie to you?”

“Certain is a strong word to use, but I’m confident I can tell when she is lying and she was not lying.”

Marisa finished her drink, and sat on the sofa, the monkey seated beside her.

“This isn’t good. I was certain she had something to do with this.”

“What she implied at the table?” He asked, and Marisa raised her eyebrow. “Any truth to that?”

“Of course not! Lyra didn’t run away, Dorothea was just stirring things up.”

Marisa touched her neck, feeling the tension slowly start to give her pain. Dorothea had implied, subtly, when Boreal left them alone for a moment, that Lyra might have fled the flat. Marisa thought that was preposterous, of course, but Lady Eilhart’s words were now tainting her mind. The truth was, she wasn’t sure if that was true; perhaps she had pushed the girl too far, but that shouldn’t have been enough to cause Lyra to run.

“She was taken, that’s the most obvious scenario.” She added, instinctively. Marcel’s gaze shifted from doubt to amusement quickly. He could tell she didn’t believe that fully.

“Dorothea doesn’t just say things for no reason.”

“Nonsense, that is all she ever does. Blabber and more blabber and nothing useful on the top of all that incessant chatter!” She spread her hands. “Lyra had no reason to flee. I’ve been nothing but good to her.”

He didn’t say anything. She knew the subject of Lyra annoyed him, so she didn’t really expect much enthusiasm on his part.

“How’s Maman?” She asked instead; he snorted, loudly.

“Still a nuisance.”

“Does she know about your English friend?”

He laughed. “Definitely not. I wouldn’t hear the end of it.”

“Certainly not, but it would make her stop with her nasty comments.”

“Only until she found something else to complain about. The problem isn’t us or the world, it’s her.” Marcel sighed. “She always has something sour to say, and I like my private life to remain as private as I can.”

“Well, you certainly require privacy now, with your new job and everything.”

“A job I owe, in some ways, to Lady Eilhart.”

Marisa raised an eyebrow, sly and mischievous. She certainly hadn’t expected that reply. She couldn’t fathom _how_ Dorothea had managed that feat, yet Marcel had no reason to lie.

“You must have been _very good_ to her.” She mocked him. He rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be nasty. And you shouldn’t underestimate her intelligence either.”

“Well, that is surprising. I didn’t think you could get this sentimental.”

“I’m stating facts. You have been underestimating her for quite some time, something I have taken notice and did the opposite.” He crossed his legs again. “You need to learn to be more patient.”

She shook her head, displeased.

“What I need is to find Lyra.” She said and he rolled his eyes. “And I need you to help me with that.”

He watched her, almost without moving a muscle, but his daemon changed places on his shoulder, and whispered something to him, that made him frown.

“That was expected.” He said to Marisa, and she nodded. “I already did you a favour for free, however, so this one is going to cost you.”

“You didn’t do what I asked you to, though.”

“Unless you want me to fabricate memories into Dorothea’s mind, I’ve done what you asked. I _asked_ her, she didn’t have the answer you were hoping for.” He scratched the back of his head. “Now, tell me what you want, and what you’re willing to give me in return for it.”

“Isn’t my undying gratitude enough?” She jested and Marcel shook his head, in disapproval.

“As a child, your offers were much better.”

“Then you can have my chocolatl.” She laughed and he frowned, annoyed. His arms over his chests, a deep crease between his eyebrows, he almost looked like a scorned child, she thought. “Don’t sulk. Maybe I can make a few introductions, connect you to some useful people. How does that sound?”

They stared at each other, his eyes narrowing and she did the same, just to spite him. Marcel finally let the air out of his lungs and rubbed his temples.

“No.”

“Don’t be difficult, Marcel. I’m your sister, the least you can do is help me.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything. I haven’t seen you in five years and suddenly you call me, and ask for a favour that was by far the dumbest thing I have ever done in my life.” Marcel spat or as closely to what spitting words were for a man so formal, so polite like he was. “And now you want me to do God-knows-what.”

“It’s important to me and you’re the only one that can help me.”

“I doubt that’s true. You have lots of friends who could aid you, you just want it to be me because you don’t want them to know about the girl.”

“True.” She raised her chin, irritated and the monkey growled, but Marcel simply shook his head. “There has been a sudden interest in the girl again, especially inside the Consistorial Court. I’d like to find her, quietly, and bring her back without too much fuss. I’m using their resources, but I’d like to get her here instead of letting them handle this on their own.”

“Then I want to know why do you want her so badly.” His tone was very dry, she thought.

Marisa thought he had noticed something, it was the only explanation for his attitude.

“She is mine.” She said, in a definitive tone, but he didn’t buy it.

He looked at her, his daemon shrieked, then he crossed his legs the opposite way, his arms resting on the arm rest. She noticed how his fingers were digging into the armchair fabric; Marisa crossed her arms over her chest, frowning. She wasn’t impressed, but she could tell that he was angry.

“That’s not good enough, Marisa.” He scowled. He rarely did that. “So, if you want my help, you’ll tell me exactly _why_ you want this girl so badly or I’m going to walk away. And, just to spite you even more, I’m going to tell your marchioness friend that you have a deeper, more obscure interest in the girl. That should be enough to give you a headache.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She scoffed.

“Do not test me.” She narrowed his eyes at him, but he didn’t flinch. “You don’t scare me anymore, sister, so stop that frowning. It makes you look ridiculous.”

Marisa held his gaze for a moment, pondering. She didn’t know if she should tell him what he wanted to know, but she was feeling out of options. She finally sighed, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers.

“She has an alethiometer with her.”

“Ah.” He said, satisfied, a little confused. “I see.”

“I would very much like the girl _and_ the alethiometer back and for that, I need a spyfly.” She explained, then stood up again, pacing all over the room for the second time that evening. It was hard not to feel restless. “You see, I _know_ Lyra didn’t run away because she left almost all of her things, except for the purse she was carrying. We looked everywhere and it’s nowhere to be found. Her things are still here and with a spyfly, I could track her down, quietly, and bring her back to safety.”

“You are assuming she hasn’t ran away.” His sarcastic tone didn’t sit well with her, and the monkey moved to the edge of the sofa, showing his teeth at Marcel and the owl, who barely spared him a glance. “But if she _has_ , then she may not come back quietly. You may want to consider that.”

Marisa scoffed, her hands on her hips. She looked at him with disdain.

“You talk and all I hear is Dorothea’s voice and words.”

“Perhaps because her idea about this situation may not be as unreasonable as you think.” He said, matter-of-factly. She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but her sneering was enough to show him she was very much unsatisfied with that conversation.

“Or perhaps you are just infatuated with a pair of very average legs.” She said, distastefully; his daemon shook her wings, hitting his cheek on her distress. He merely sighed.

“Her legs are above average. It is your female rivalry with her that is costing you, she is a valuable ally, except you just like to see her a silly nuisance.” Marcel said, cracking his knuckles, bored. “But very well. I think can get you the spyflies, though I don’t understand why can’t you do it. Isn’t the Oblation Board eligible as a Magisterium group?”

She twisted her nose at the mention of that. “Our semi-private status doesn’t grant me the benefits of a full-on office, like yours.” Marisa sighed, again. “To be fair, I think they just don’t want to acknowledge me.”

He chuckled, which displeased her, but at least he had agreed to help her. Marisa had expected more resistance than that, but she wasn’t going to complain that he had accepted everything smoothly. Marcel tapped both his knees, standing up, then brushed his sleeves. The monkey went into her arms and she helped him settle on her shoulder, though their proximity was uncomfortable and she wanted her brother to leave, soon, so they could stay away from each other again. She felt a bit of tension disappear, now that she knew Marcel was going to help her. Perhaps with the spyflies, they would find Lyra soon and all this nonsense would be resolved. She tried not to think of Asriel, those were intrusive thoughts that had no other purpose but to distract her.

“Drop by my hotel room tomorrow, after lunch. I think I can have your permit by then.” He took his coat by the other, then turned to face her. She had a sly smile on her face.

“You’re going to see her.” She said; he ignored her suggestive tone.

“Yes. We have business to discuss and no, I will not elaborate.”

“Well, perhaps it is your turn to have a child.” Marisa jested, and saw with delight how he jerked his head, absolutely horrified.

“This isn’t funny, Marisa.”

“Consider it, though. Another English grandchild and Maman might actually die, this time.” She laughed.

“When you put it like that… Don’t give me hope.” He kissed her cheek, taking care not to touch the monkey, before walking away. “And try not to drag me further into this business of yours, _please_.”

*******

“I saw your uncle in Geneva, last month.” Marcel said, while buttoning his shirt up.

Dorothea watched from her place in the bed, curious, pondering. They didn’t do much talking since he arrived, but now that she had some time to think, she was wondering what on Earth did he want from her. Political gossip sounded like a lame excuse, in her opinion.

She glanced over the clock at her bedside table, and it showed it was almost seven in the morning. The sky outside was beginning to get a clear, grey look. She sighed; she was supposed to meet Nugent in a couple of hours and she hadn’t slept at all. On top of that, Marcel had left a new set of bruises on her neck and had accidentally - though she wasn’t very sure if that was genuine or not - left a scratch on her cheek that she wasn’t sure if she could hide.

Seated at the end of her bed, carefully placing his tie back on, Dorothea watched him and wondered how easy it was to forget he was part of the Magisterium. He was a snob, yes, and arrogant and full of himself, but those traits weren’t necessarily exclusive to Church members. She realised she missed the Magisterium pin on his lapel, at least that was a quick reminder to her of whom she was dealing with.

“Oh, yes. He mentioned he was visiting Auguste.” She said, resting her head against the pillow. “Probably to talk to him about Evelyn, poor girl.”

“Yes, he mentioned that. He wants to bring the girl to England, to study. It was quite an interesting dinner.” He finished fixing his tie around his neck, then looked at her, his hands on his lap. “What is your interest in the girl?”

“I’m just trying to be helpful. She’s young, and being stuck with her mother and father won’t do her any good. St. Sophia’s would be a great place for her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that is _your_ problem, isn’t it?” She hissed back at him, but he didn’t seemed bothered by her attitude. In fact, it amused him. “I know it’s hard for you to grasp that some people just genuinely do things out of kindness.”

He offered her a sly grin, instead working on putting his shoes on. Astraeus and the owl were chatting on the bed, snuggling against each other, as it was mildly cold even with the heater on.

“So, did uncle Bryce succeed in convincing Auguste?” She asked, curious. She had been so caught up with her life that she had forgotten to ask her uncle about that.

“Yes. Quite an eloquent man, your uncle, and full of praise for you. Evelyn is to come next year, apparently, when she turns seventeen.” Marcel said. “I have never seen Auguste so speechless, your uncle made it seem so easy.”

“He’s very good with words, always has been. A career in politics will do that to you.” She yawned. “And he always considered me like his own daughter, taught me a lot, which is why he agreed to help me with this. I’m happy he managed to secure Evelyn her education. She’s gonna learn a lot from my cousin.”

Marcel was done with his shoes, then turned to look at her. The first thing he had done, when he decided to get up, was to look around for a place where they could sit and talk, as to not break their “chatting in bed” rule. But Dorothea had no desks or tables in the bedroom, only her vanity, that was aimed someplace else. So, he took on the task of slowly dressing himself, seated at a respectable distance from her, so to speak.

“He did mention you refused to be his heir.” He eloquently said it, as if he just meant that to be a casual trivia, not something he was genuinely interested, which he was. She could tell that by the way he moved, slower and less predictably, how his jaw got tense as he waited, almost eagerly, for an answer. Dorothea thought she was beginning to learn how to read these small details, but then again, perhaps she was simply exhausted and imagining things.

“He has children of his own, no need for me to step in.” She sighed. “Besides, I don’t need more responsibilities and our titles are already a mess as it is. Grandfather certainly made sure of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you don’t know? The Marquessate of Winchester, that’s the title I hold, was actually _bound_ to the Dukedom of Westminster, my Uncle’s. It was some crazy marriage, so for two centuries or so, they were a single title, so to speak, until grandfather decided that both his sons deserved a title. A sensible man, not very wise though, but I don’t know what they expected from an amateur painter. So they went into court and split the inheritance between the titles and my uncle being the eldest, became a Duke, while my father became a marquess. You can imagine how _happy_ with this arrangement, father was, being a traditionalist.”

“What an odd thing to do.”

“Oh he was a quirky man, granddad. He had good intentions, he didn’t want my uncle and father to struggle because of a silly title, but in the end it didn’t matter. Uncle Bryce, like me, has the undesirable trait of being a supporter of freedom while father was a conservative of the worst kind.” Dorothea said, amusingly. “I digress. I told uncle Bryce I had no interest in reuniting the titles. He has two legitimate heirs… well, he has one, since Fred became a priest and while Georgia is a bit young and more interested in boys and parties, she has time to mature and learn.”

“Ah, yes. Your _priest_ cousin and another rebellious socialite. What an odd little family you have.” He rested his hand on her leg, covered by the blanket.

“You’re one to talk. Have you met your sister?” She mocked and he took his hand away, running his fingers through his hair, trying to settle it down.

Dorothea watched him, a slight glimpse at their daemons, still comfortably nested against each other, oblivious to their little banter or so it seemed. Marcel stood up, adjusted his belt on and walked up to the window, his index finger tapping at his chin, as he held his elbow in on hand. She knew he was just paving the way to asking her a favour or something too valuable, he was trying to smooth her down so he could pry her open, thus she kept herself sharp, trying to remain a bastion of self assuredness. That would fail, eventually, she knew it well, but Dorothea could then claim she had at least tried.

“Do you take care of yourself?” He asked and that was unexpected, but he said it so seriously she found it hard to think he was jesting. She saw his daemon open an eye, checking him out with curiosity. That clearly had not been planned by them.

“I don’t understand.”

Marcel wasn’t looking at her, instead watching the street outside, cold and crisp and gritty. His expression was very bland, but that was a tricky she knew well; it was meant to hide his true feelings, whatever they were. Dorothea often wondered what it would be like to be inside his head, and the conclusion she and Astraeus arrived was that it would be a nightmare. She did that often with people, imagining what would be like to be them and more often the not the results were calming, funny or interesting. But Marcel and Marisa had something in common and that was that she did not envy them at all.

“I mean, do you take care of yourself? As in, are you not worried you might get… pregnant?” He said that word as if he was saying something horrible, which would have made her laugh if she wasn’t so confused.

“Where has that come from, now?” She stuttered; he finally lost his patience and turned to face her.

“Just answer me.”

“I don’t have to, if I don’t want to.” She snapped, and Astraeus, sensing her anger, flew to her, his sharp claws digging dip into her bare shoulder flesh. “It is none of your business. This is Marisa’s doing, isn’t it? She said something to you, hasn’t she? Of course she has!”

He made a soft noise of distaste, extending his arm for his daemon to perch on. Seeing that he wasn’t gonna answer her, Dorothea frowned.

“So much for courtesy, and here I thought you were better bred than this.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, you seem actually concerned about this _now,_ so she probably said something. No matter. If it puts your mind at ease, _yes_ , I do take care of myself. Quite thoroughly, in fact. I take a herbal tea once a week, it’s a gyptian recipe.” He scoffed with disdain, but she shushed him. “And I take actual, scientific pills meant for that sort of thing every day. I’ve been taking the tea since I was eighteen and I’ve been taking the pills since your sister got pregnant, as she goddamn well know. Doubt she mentioned that, though.”

She turned around briskly, startling Astraeus, and opened the drawer of her bedside table. A moment later, a small flask of blue pills was slammed on the surface of the furniture, making a drastic noise that she used to enhance the meaningful and vicious glance she threw at him. She had only seen him flinch before her twice, and this had been one of those moments; if he had any shame, she thought he would have blushed by now.

“Have they ever failed?” He asked, methodically, as if he wasn’t just insulting her by questioning her like that. She bit the bait, though, she was too proud not too.

“No, but they are not completely efficient. You need not worry, though.” She shoved the bottle back into the drawer, after taking a pill out and swallowing it dry. “If worst comes to worse, you are lucky enough that I am not religious, thus I have no scrupulous when it comes to removing little problems. I even know some good doctors in America who does that sort of thing. Their laws are fairly better compared to ours.”

He looked at her, suspicious, slightly unimpressed and she was feeling exposed, so she quickly changed subjects.

“Why did you tell me about Lyra?” She tried to make eye contact, but he had looked out of the window again. His daemon, now on his shoulder, cooed softly. “I mean, you haven’t asked for anything in return and you’re going against your own sister--”

“Not really. I told her everything you know about the girl, which is nothing, but still, it’s something.”

“Ah, so you’re playing both sides! But why?”

He scoffed, and made his way back to her bed, sitting at her feet, his eyes on her, measuring in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She managed to hide that, but not Astraeus; he hid behind her like a little coward.

“I’m not playing sides; in fact, I’d rather not be involved at all.” He sighed.

“So, this is a free assistance?”

“Well, think of it as a debt I’m paying.”

“Oh, really? I don’t remember causing a debt.”

He approached her to give her a kiss. She tried not to complain too much, but it felt rehearsed.

“Think of it as my gratitude for introducing me to Madame Laurent.”

His smile made her shiver. She watched as he looked for his jacket, her heart pounding as she did not expect that. Dorothea decided that the best approach was to simply talk truthfully and hope he would feel the same.

“So she finally approached you.” She said. “I was wondering when that would happen.”

“Oh, yes. We had a delightful lunch in Geneva, two months ago, I believe.” Marcel finished buttoning his jacket, and stood by her bed, looking down on her with a wild amusement. She realised he had been waiting for that topic to come up since he had arrived, perhaps earlier. “An ingenious woman, full of energy and elegance and as your uncle, she was also full of things to say about you.”

Dorothea held his gaze back, silently, a crease between her eyebrows as she felt her hands sweating a little. His smug attitude wasn’t helping her either, but she kept her cool together.

“If you’re expecting me to apologise for selling information on you, you don’t know me at all.” She said, snarky, and he laughed, genuinely, which was a surprise.

“I expected no such thing, I know you too well for that. I understand it was more than worth it, as well.” He fiddled with his ring, bearing the La Maison Juste symbol. “It was a very productive lunch, however, she and I got along very well.”

“Of course. She trades in eloquence and charm, and you’re just a small bundle of these, aren’t you?” She mocked, but that didn’t affect him. “Your attitude is making me regret the decision of involving her.”

“You should be worried, I have every intention of turning her to my side.”

Dorothea knew she shouldn’t have, but she laughed, loudly, sarcastically and that made him displeased, his smile fainting just enough for her to notice.

“That’s nonsense.” She said. “Madame Laurent has been neutral on any subject since forever. You can’t make her choose.”

“You’re underestimating me.”

“No, I am simply stating a fact. I know how persuasive you can be, it’s quite admirable, I have to say, but she isn’t gonna choose a side.”

“She seemed to be quite enthralled with my company.”

“Of course she did. She’s old, French and you’re a young, fairly handsome man who actually bathes. That is her criteria, truth be told. Not very high standards, if you ask my opinion.” She smirked and he shook his head, barely noticeable. “But you still couldn’t turn her even if you rocked her world - and her bed, for the matter. It’s not that simple.”

“I believe I can do it.”

“Good for you but what is belief compared to facts? She is and always have been an opportunist, a profiteer. She makes more money from staying neutral than you could possibly offer her, and she isn’t even in this business for the money, she doesn’t needed it. What she is really after is influence and power, and while the Church is a powerful friend, so is the whole parliament and scientists and the secret service.” Dorothea ran her fingers through her hair and smiled, because she realised he was frowning, displeased. He had expected another reaction from her, it was very clear. “Believe me, darling, I know you won’t succeed because I tried it myself.”

“You’re wrong.” She could sense his coolness vanishing, as that was not the reaction he had expected from her. He probably had hoped for insights or more on the older woman, but Dorothea came with a whole obstacle on his way. Like his sister, she noticed, he wasn’t very fond of being discredited, even if it was reasonable.

“I’m not. In fact, I am willing to bet with you. I _know_ you will fail.”

“You sound childish.” He sneered but she laughed.

“And you sound like a loser.”

He narrowed his eyes, trying to see past her jests, but there was nothing to see. She meant every word.

“Very well. If I… lose this bet, what do you want?”

“I want you to get rid of the Chief Commissioner of the Police, non-lethal, please. He has plenty of scandals you could expose. I need him gone, retired, arrest, I don’t mind which, as long as he is still alive.”

She carefully explained why she needed the man gone and how he had been a nuisance, standing in the way of the law to protect the interest of the Magisterium. More importantly, and that she omitted from Marcel, though she expected him to guess it, was that the commissioner was responsible for the Gobblers operating so freely and the police’s lack of efficiency in capturing them.

“That seems… Too easy.” He remarked and she nodded.

“All we want is a vacant spot to actually have someone decent in that role. There is no catch here.” She began to tie her hair up, Astraeus flying around her head, anxious. He didn’t like that deal she was making and she should’ve heeded his advice, but if she listened to him half the times he had something to say, her life would be very boring. “Now, what do you want, let’s say, if you do manage to win? You won’t, by the way, but I like to indulge you.”

“I want all your codes and agent placement information.” He said, matter-of-factly. Dorothea’s eyes widened, as she felt surprised, but she knew he was doing that on purpose. He wanted her to back away, because what he was asking for was inconceivable, nearly treason.

“Fine.” She offered her hand to him, adamant and determined, and it was his turn to hesitate. She _knew_ he couldn’t do it, she was very certain of it, but something deep inside her stirred. What if she was wrong? What if he managed it? _Well, then I just won’t give him the files_ , she thought. But then that would discredit her, she knew, and he would never deal with her again. Like it or not, he had been useful more often than not, and it would be shameful to destroy that. She also didn’t want to admit she would have hated not to see him again.

“You’re bluffing.” He scoffed, but she realised he didn’t sound very sure of himself. She kept her hand waiting for his shake.

“Certainly not. You have my word that I will pay my side of the deal, if you win.” She smiled, witty. “You won’t, of course, I’ve already explained why. And you can always find a way to ruin me, if I don’t come through with my word.”

One last glance between them, then Marcel smiled, sly and dry, and shook her hand firmly. Her heart was pounding, because if she had a made mistake her, not only she would be at an impasse to pay her side of the deal, but also it would Marcel managed to ally himself with a powerful

“It’s a deal, then.”

He kissed her again before leaving and Dorothea was still pondering about her predicament. Well, worst comes to worst, I can always smother him with a pillow, she thought, slightly displeased but also amused. The fact she had considered that a few times already was far too unhealthy, but given she was never put into the position where she _had_ to do that, the idea simply amused her.

“If Marcel turns Madame Laurent to his side, Nugent is gonna kill you.” Astraeus hissed and she sighed, getting out of bed so she could get ready for her meeting.

“He sure as hell will.”


	13. unintended consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick disclaimer: In the first section of this chapter, there is a mention to an attempt to suicide. It's not super explicit, but I understand it can be distressing, so fair warning.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, this past week was really tough, but here's the update! Yes, all my OCs daemons are naimed after Greek entities lmao I am that basic.

_I have cultivated my hysteria_   
_with pleasure and terror._   
**charles baudelaire.**

**_Winter, 1996._ **

No one knew more about running away than Alma did.

Alma Falk’s real name had once been Louise Dumont, but that name vanished the day the Sigil fell, and she was arrested and tortured, then she left the ruins of the only life she knew behind. While she had been born in Norway, Alma had been raised in France and thus considered herself French in every aspect of her life, but her place of birth.

Her family had been well to-do, and she was incredibly intelligent, almost to the point of being a savant. In a different world, she might have been allowed to go to college sooner, but both her gender and the rules of the world she lived in delayed that process for a while. She read History at the University of Paris, and she spoke at least five different languages fluently, as well as having a vast understanding of many other languages, most of them European. She never married, though she was attractive enough to gather around herself a small line of suitors, that she dismissed quite uninterested. More importantly, nothing about Alma - or Louise, as she was known then - indicated that she might have anything to do with anything shady or any underground work. She had been a Librarian, at the Library of her university, and she lived a normal life for all that everyone knew.

Except, she had been a high ranking member of the Sigil, or as they were known in French: _Le Murmure_. Her work consisted of helping the communicating parties, who used books in her library and in libraries all across the world, to pass on the messages. She guaranteed the messages reached their destination, especially while translating some of them, although most Sigil members could speak at least three of the five languages expected by the group rules.

As she walked down the street, keeping to herself in her dark and long coat, as night began to fall in Stockholm, Alma pondered quietly. Eilhart, in her conception, seemed to know a lot but she still didn’t know enough; the Sigil had been more powerful than expected, especially considering their members and their lives. Its reach was tremendous, and the power they wielded was unbeknownst to many and subtle, changing and eliminating threats, fast and efficiently and quietly, like a _whisper._ It was like a natural resource, functioning seamlessly; she remembered the utter joy she had, every day, the rush of doing something useful, of belonging somewhere. The group had been so powerful, and this she remembered with a special sting of pain, that even the Magisterium feared it. They feared it so much that, when they destroyed the Sigil, they didn’t tell anyone, instead making everything but a silent kill, an occasional accident. The Sigil was ruined the same way it existed for decades: unknown and in utter silence.

That was why Alma knew someone had betrayed them. Her biggest fear, however, was that it had been her. Accidentally, of course, but she had very little memories of what happened during her time under interrogation.

She paced across the street, towards the city, with its lively, warm lamplights, bracing herself against the cold wind. There was snow already, though winter was had just arrived. She still wasn’t sure if her idea was clever, but at this point, she had to try. Not for herself, as she thought, but for Dorothea and her hopes. _We could use your help_ , her last letter had said again, and Alma was mildly surprised to learn the woman actually was nobility; nothing about her the day they met had shown any sign of that. She liked Dorothea, but more importantly, she pitied her; Eilhart was seeing the beginning of the end and she was trying to stop it, grasping at nothingness. Alma knew that well; she envied her, more importantly, because in her case, Dorothea could at least take time to prepare for her doom.

“Well, at least she is trying, which is more than I can say for myself.” She said to herself, in a whisper.

Because of the cold, the streets were mostly empty except for some cars, but all the restaurants and bars and other places meant for food and drink and companionship were open. She couldn’t go in any of them, of course, not unless she wanted to cause a scene or suffer the prejudice and fear that would come from being seen by normal people. That thought stung too, but mostly because she was feeling very cold and she would have liked a good, hot meal in a hot place. Under normal circumstances she would have dared face that situation, but not that night. She had something important to do.

This was to be her fifth winter in Stockholm, locked in that abandoned house, and she shivered just to think of the cold that awaited once her little quest was solved. Without a heater, her fireplace could barely afford to keep her warm the whole night. She had managed to gather enough wood to keep her going for a month or a little more, if she used it wisely and modestly; the worst case scenario was to use the books to feed the fire once the worst of the winter arrived. Alma had to do that last winter, and she resented it a lot. The books were her last connection to the life she had, and they made her feel civilised and proper and decent, so burning them felt like an act of savagery.

She finally found the pub she was looking for. It was packed with people, considering it was a Friday night, so Alma felt sad and desperate almost immediately, because she didn’t want to go in there. Instead, she decided to wait for it to empty a little, leaning against the building, cold and sharp stone against the thin fabric of her shabby coat, her arms crossed against her chest. She tried to conceal the hole in her glove, and rubbing her legs against each other, she waited, as patiently as she could. She would have waited the whole night if she had to.

It was almost midnight and she was certain she would freeze if she stayed out there. The only thing keeping her distracted from the cold was that faint feeling of dizziness she was familiar with. The moment she felt it, Alma let out a sigh.

“What are you doing here?” Came the sharp voice of her daemon, as he climbed down from the rooftop of the pub.

She stepped away from the stone wall, and turned to face him. He was a monkey, deep yellow and orange fur that shimmered under the proper light and his face was in a light blue tone. He was agile climbing down to sit on a trashcan, but she knew his senses were dulled; once or twice he had missed his step on his way down, and while they were separated, she dreaded feeling the pain from that fall.

“You’ve been drinking again.”

He didn’t reply, instead groaning and fidgeting in his place. He had started that strange vice after he abandoned her, trading her presence for liquor, and depending on how drunk he got - he had to steal leftover drinks after all - she would spend entire days feeling sick and nauseous and absolutely wrecked on the inside. _It’s very mild today_ , she thought, _perhaps he had just started._

“Are you here to disturb me again?” Aion said, and she took a step forward, almost pleading, when he made a sudden movement as if preparing to leave.

“Please, let us not fight. I’ve come for a good reason.” She sighed, then looked around. The street was mostly empty and they were far away enough from the pub’s main entrance to avoid being seen. “There is something we need to discuss.”

“I have nothing to say to you, betrayer.” He growled, but she held her hand up, pacifying.

“But I have plenty to say to you.” She said, in a hurry, half a whisper. “It is about _Le Murmure_. A woman has come to see me--”

He slapped the top of the trashcan, making the crappy metal resonate loudly. Alma shushed him, urgently, her finger to her lips, her eyes darting everywhere hoping no one would come. Though, when they were together, people’s attention rarely lingered longer than necessary.

“Please, Aion, listen--”

“I won’t listen! All these years, and you only came to see me because of them. Business. You wasted our life with them, and now that they’re dead, you intend to deprive us of life as well.” He hissed. “I will not have it.”

“Please, listen-- She needs my help!”

“I also needed your help, and what did you do? You tried to kill yourself, kill _us!_ You would have ended my existence without so much as a goodbye.” The violence in his voice made her stagger, so Alma took that silent pause to recover.

She felt the tears coming, effortlessly, so she wiped them away before they could freeze. They left a cold, sharp trail in her cheeks, but Alma didn’t let that distress her.

“I am sorry, Aion. I really am, but I am broken, you must know that by now.”

“You _aren’t_ broken, Louise. You _were_ broken, deliberately, and you have not managed to heal. It is not a state of constant feeling, but temporary.” He said, bitterly, but she shared the shiver that went down his spine. Her torture under the CCD affected him just as much it had affected her, including his irrational fear of water. She knew that, of course, and although she had never said it out loud, that was the reason why she had chosen to jump off a bridge into a river. She didn’t want him to follow her in their last moments, but Alma had clearly underestimated how Aion felt about her, because he followed her into the river without hesitation. Now, she looked at him, her chest as empty as ever as he was bursting with every emotion she doubted she would ever own again. “You would have chosen a definitive solution for your temporary problem, you would have ended me to heal. No apology could fix that.”

“That wasn’t healing.” She whispered, but she didn’t have the heart to complete her sentence out loud. _It was a purge._ “All I can do is apologise.”

“Had you told me what you wanted, I would have understood. I would have complied, but you chose on your own and disregarded me entirely.” He said, angrily. “I can’t forgive you, Louise.”

“Please, stop calling me Louise! I understand how you feel, I do. But I need you to listen to me, because this is important. More important than anything we could do to each other.” Alma said, shoving her hands in her pockets. “An English woman came to me a month ago or something, she offered me a job in Oakley Street. Do you remember them?”

“Vaguely, yes.”

“Then you know why we must help them! You know what they are about!”

“I have to do nothing. I don’t owe them anything.”

“The Magisterium did _this_ to us.” She gestured back and forth.

“No, _you_ did this to us. The Magisterium hurt us, yes, but you’re responsible for this. They didn’t force you to commit suicide.”

“Well, they might as well have done that. There was nothing left of me after they let me go.”

“Yet I was still intact. I wonder how that’s possible.”

She had had enough. He never listened, she knew he didn’t, but she felt like she had to try. _Well, I have_ , she thought, he watched her, defiant, hoping for a fight. Before they were separated, they always had a difficult relationship, but they found balance eventually. The separation simply allowed them not to find that necessary balance anymore, simply because now they could just walk away and not deal with it. 

“Whatever you say.” She whispered. “I have a right to have any amount of agency over what I do to myself.”

“So do I, not that it mattered to you.”

“It did, but you just want to resent me. I can’t do this anymore. I was looking for purpose and this is what I found.”

“You’ve found nothing!” He hissed, showing her his sharp teeth, that she ignored, though warily.

“Yes, I have. I want to help Eilhart and Oakley Street. I _will_ help them, whether you come or not.” His puzzled expression almost made her lose her confidence. “I’m going to London.”

“Really? How? In _that_ state? With what money?”

“They’re paying for my ticket.” She ignored his previous question because she didn’t know the answer to that. She had no idea how to travel without her daemon, even when they came from Norway, they had come together, more or less, but by sea or zeppelin, that was another story. She had nowhere to hide in a public place like that; she didn’t mind that though, that was a problem for future Alma to solve.

“Oh, are they now?”

“Yes, they are. So you can either come with me or stay, I don’t care. We never truly left each other, so I thought you deserved to know where I was going this time.”

 _In case you decide to come back_ , she thought but she didn’t say. He’d have guessed it anyway, arrogant and clever as he was.

“Oh, now you’re thinking of me.”

“This is your problem, Aion. All you do is resent and begrudge me. You once felt pride in helping people beat the Church. Now, all I see is that there is no place for forgiveness in you. You’re not better than the thugs who tortured us, and I am better off without you.”

She didn’t give him a chance to reply; he barely moved, probably because he didn’t expect her to say what she said. Alma wrapped her coat better around herself, trying to keep the cold away, and went back home, quickly. She wished she could feel sorry for him, but she didn't; he was a nasty piece of work.

As she arrived, she quickly went to light up a fire, and that took some time as the wood was humid. She sighed and shivered, trying to make the fire, and when it finally worked, she sat beside the fireplace, her teeth gritting from the cold. She had tried to patch the broken roof and had done a poor job, but it was at least mended. She watched the fire, hungry; she wished she had bought something to eat on her way back, because her house couldn’t really store meat and other types of food other than non-perishable stuff, like tea or coffee or rice.

She fell asleep next to the fireplace, as close as she could get without getting hurt. When she woke, there was no sun out yet, and the fire was dying, so she got up and threw some logs into it. Her head was heavy, a side effect of Aion’s drinking; she cursed in every language she knew.

Brushing the dust from her skirt, she looked around and saw her daemon seated on the armchair, watching her, intensely. He was twice as intelligent as she was, and he had a lot of control over how he felt, while Alma was a mess of emotions and thoughts she couldn’t quite organise, at least she used to be, until apathy took over. Brilliant minds like hers were often cursed with something; be it a mental affliction or physical, and in her case, it was mental. She had obsessive thoughts every now and again, that were often under control, but she was also vulnerable to hallucinations sometimes.

She would have thought her daemon there was an hallucination, except she never hallucinated daemons. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he, so she quietly went into the room she claimed as bedroom, to pack the few things she had.

Though Alma had been born with money, the fall of the Sigil also threw a blow at her personal belongings. What was her family’s was still theirs, but because she already had her own money with her, the Magisterium had taken everything she owned. What she had left after that, she pawned to have enough money to flee France. Her family was very much unaware about her whereabouts, and Alma simply had no desire to confront them. To confront them meant becoming Louise again, and Louise had been arrested and tortured for defying the Magisterium. A person with that record was never truly safe.

After she was done, with a single suitcase, she went back to the living room, to pack some of the books she deemed absolutely necessary.

“You’re really going.” Her daemon sounded surprise; she continued to pack some of the books in a rucksack.

“You thought I was bluffing?”

“Well, yes. Why else would you come to me?”

“To do exactly what I did. To tell you I’m leaving, and to ask you to join me.” She finished packing a very thick volume she used in the past to code information. Oakley Street probably had their methods, but it was always good to have personal codes at hand. “This is a noble cause, Aion. They need all the help they can get.”

“This woman-- who is she?”

“She is a lady and a scholar. Well, and a spy. Very intelligent, a little… quirky, but honest. She was invited to join _Le Murmure_ once, so I assume she must be brilliant. Well, she claimed she was--”

“And that’s it? That’s all you know?” He scoffed, which didn’t sit well with her. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Certainly not. True, I don’t know much, but I liked her, so that should be enough for now.” Alma said. Of course it wasn't enough, but she didn't want to admit she hadn't thought the whole thing through. Dorothea had been so nice to her, after all these years of loneliness, that she didn't consider the possibility of the whole thing being a scam. “It’s not like I can do much investigative work without having a daemon, anyway.”

“This could be a trap!”

“Yes, but at this point, I have very little to lose, haven’t I?” She closed her rucksack. “If you had met her you’d know she is trustworthy. I am willing to risk it.”

“You’re also willing to risk _me_ , as well.” He scowled. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Not everything is about you, Aion. If you’re not with me, you should be fine.”

“If they kill you, I could die.”

“Well, whether I am murdered or if I will die of hunger or cold, your death will come all the same. Just because we’re separated, doesn’t mean you get to evade the natural law of things.” She even smiled this time, much to their surprise. Now that she had made a decision, she felt like a burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Life didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

"You don't know that!" He scowled, but she noticed his uneasiness, pacing around the armchair, climbing up and down. He didn't like to acknowledge death in general. "Perhaps when the bond is severed, life gets severed too."

"Don't be proud. You are not special, and when the time comes, we will both disappear."

He laughed, disdainfully, but there was sadness in his voice. She felt it too, overwhelming her, and it was an alien feeling.

"You mean _I_ will disappear. Your flesh will stay." Aion whispered, almost too low for her to hear, but she did. He looked away, to the fireplace. "You'll be remembered."

"So will you." She saw him shook his head, faintly.

Alma breathed, slowly. Dorothea had made arrangements for Alma to send her letters through a scholar, that was also a friend of hers. He was fairly young, handsome and quiet; he never asked many questions, but was always polite. He came by regularly, every Tuesdays and Fridays, to see if Alma had any letters, and he visited her whenever he had something to deliver. That very afternoon she had sent a letter to Dorothea, essentially showing her desire to leave at last. Without Aion, she had no idea how that would work. But with him…

“You should come with me.” She said, at last. “Alone in here, it doesn’t feel right. This is our chance to have a new life.”

“I told you--”

“You can’t forgive me, I know. But we could start anew in London. We’d only need to stay together when working, and when not, you could explore on your own, or drink, whatever you fancy.”

He growled even though she hardly meant that as an offense. Then, he straightened himself on his place, proud and civilised.

“I think I shall go with you.” It was all he said. She tried to look happy, but not too much.

She knew his moods, she didn’t expect him to come at all, but at least she had a victory. She looked at him, pondering his fierceness, everything she was not. When they parted, unfriendly, he had attacked her; a huge scar was still on her shoulder from that evening. She couldn’t forgive him either, but coexistence was easier than forgiveness.

*******

Dorothea sat before the woman, the restaurant table between them was beautiful and round, a flower arrangement at the center, fragrant lilies that turned the winter day less grim. Before she entered the room, she had brushed her head to get rid of some drops of rain that had hit her on her way to the entrance, and she was cold in her silky blouse and trousers. If she had had the option, she would have stayed at home.

She had also just received news that Lyra was in gyptian custody, which was a relief, except the CCD was ruthlessly harassing every boat, every canoe, every ship or car or van across England, looking for the girl. And the fact no one in Parliament was saying a word or lifting a finger to protest infuriated Dorothea even more. Nothing about that day was inviting, and it continued to upset her when an odd invitation for lunch arrived earlier that morning.

“Couldn’t you have dressed appropriately?” Madame Laurent said, sharp and disdainful as always.

“I was busy at the RAI. What did you expect, summoning me like this?” Dorothea hissed, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm, as the waiter gave her a menu and set up the plates in front of her. She glanced at the older woman, warily.

Madame Laurent was impeccably dressed, a silky dress in a deep shade of purple, that had a soft shimmer under the delicate lights in the restaurant. This was an expensive place, a favourite of the madame, as Dorothea knew, and this was a place for high class ladies, dressed just as impeccably, in their beautiful high couture dresses. Not a place for a woman dressed in silky sailor pants, who hours earlier was deep into reading the dustiest book the Royal Arctic Institute held. Astraeus tried to brush her shoulders to get rid of the residue dust, to no avail. Dorothea waited for the woman’s reply with a certain wariness, like when she was young and Madame Laurent would slap her for dressing poorly, or for forgetting how to hold her fork properly.

“Don’t use that tone with me.”

“I will speak as I please.” She was feeling extra snappy that day, but that would bear no rewards.

Madame Laurent was around sixty years old, and Dorothea knew that with a lack of certainty, because the woman certainly didn’t look her age. She looked mature, certainly, fair hair that she did in a classic updo, tied behind her head, but she looked younger than what was usual for women her age. More importantly, she was an exquisitely intelligent woman, that Dorothea admired and feared more than any Magisterium official; to be summoned like that meant trouble was on her path, certainly. She held her breath, as the woman ordered their food without consulting Dorothea. She expected that too, she was used to that routine; Astraeus barely greeted the peacock daemon. He feared and loathed him just as much.

“You look well.” Laurent said, placing both her hands on the table and smiling. Her English was perfect, but she allowed just enough of a hint of her French to slip into her accent, for fashionable reasons. Dorothea felt a shiver down her spine, her attitude was unsettling.

“Is there something you want?” Dorothea tried to be polite this time, and the woman seemed genuinely confused. “You’re complimenting me.”

“Ha, what a silly girl you are. Don’t be foolish, this is proper, civilised conversation. Not that you seem familiar with the concept.” She sipped at her wine before glancing back at Dorothea, who was stiff in her place, waiting, an unimpressed expression on her face. “I was hoping we could chat about a few different things--”

“This is about Marcel.” She shouldn’t have interrupted, she knew and Astraeus chirped in her ear, disapprovingly. It had been a couple of weeks since she had seen Marcel, she should have known this day was coming. Ignoring it was safer, though.

“Certainly. I have to admit, I didn’t think you had in you.”

“What? Courage? Stamina?” Dorothea jested, much to Madame Laurent’s own amusement.

“No, _elegance_. That man is far too tidy and high class for you.”

“I’m not an animal. Besides, you are aware that _I_ am the noblewoman here, right?”

“Birth means nothing if you can’t behave like a proper Marchioness--”

“Marcel. You were discussing him. Return to it.” She hissed and the woman smiled, like a predator, but her eyes didn’t look amused. Something wasn’t right. “I expect you are curious. Only you would find a man like him entertaining.”

“I don’t seem to be the only one, darling. Nevermind that, though; yes, we had lunch on several occasions since his visit to London, he’s been sending me many letters. An extraordinary man.”

“Please, if you want him, we’re not serious. He is all yours.”

This was the closest she had been to enraging the woman, who grasped at her fork, then dropped it gently back in its place, as the waiter came with their food. Dorothea took this moment of silence to drink a generous amount from her glass of wine. When the waiter left, Laurent went on.

“You always had a distasteful sense of humour, Dorothea. It hasn’t changed, but I’ll indulge you: if I wanted him, what makes you think I would ask _you_ for permission?”

“Because it’s common courtesy?” Dorothea scoffed, mimicking the woman’s speech she had heard so much when she was younger. “You can’t snatch someone else’s plaything! It’s impolite! Where are your manners?”

“Stop this nonsense. Behave like a decent, highly born woman!” Laurent hissed through a smile. “He has spoken quite a lot about you, you know.”

“I’m sure he has. Tell me, this is about our bet, isn’t it? Of course it is, why else would I be here?”

“Yes, he did mention your childish game. If anything it’s amusing that the two of you can’t think of better ways to spend your time together. Youth nowadays… you have no sense of entertainment.” She watched as Laurent’s fingers moved when she put down her fork again, stretching her joints. She was antsy, Dorothea realised. Panic began to stir inside of her, and she took care to make sure it didn't show on her face.

She took care to blush of embarrassment though, as that was expected; in high society it was known and expected of women to sometimes sleep around and be indiscreet, but to women like Madame Laurent, it was important to maintain a façade of modesty, and given she had been Dorothea’s mentor and teacher, she expected the same behaviour from her former pupil.

“So, who won?” Dorothea asked, casually.

“What do you mean?”

“The bet. Who won?”

Laurent frowned. “No one did, girl.”

“You see, that’s not possible. I said he couldn’t do it and he said he could, so one of us has to have won.” She said, a little annoyed, a little worried. “It’s a binary bet. Unless you killed him, of course, but in that case I technically win too. Too bad though, I sort of liked him--”

“Dorothea. Stop. Do you hear yourself?” Her tone was far too serious. “Yes, Delamare tried to win me over. Eloquent, clever, suave even, I’d say. Filled with compliments and flattery and politeness. I have never seen so much care put into lying.”

Dorothea’s stomach lurched violently. She tried not to tremble; that speech was worrisome. Astraeus whispered to her, asking if she thought Marcel had won the bet, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she raised her chin, trying to look disdainful. He couldn’t have won, she thought with concern, because she knew with a fierce certainty that she had been right about Madame Laurent’s alignment. She had to have been right. Dorothea could almost hear Nugent’s little scolding already, about her carelessness.

“You sound infatuated.” She managed to say, taking care her voice did not falter.

“I am merely concerned, mind your tone with me. He was very persistent, but I said no.”

“Just like I told him you would.” Dorothea didn’t allow herself to breath with relief. She felt like she didn’t deserve it.

“Yes, he mentioned that and he told me of your reward as well.” Her face was grim now. “Am I correct to assume you haven’t read the papers this morning? They came out an hour ago.”

“I didn’t have the time but… why?” She said, feeling her skin almost vibrate from that impending sense of doom that seemed to be surrounding her that morning. _I should have stayed in bed,_ she thought, watching Madame Laurent look at her, unflinching, almost immobilised in her own calculations. _Yes,_ Astraeus thought back, irritated, _because that would have stopped the world from existing._ “Why?” Dorothea asked again, anxiety building up inside her.

Madame Laurent finally moved, searching her purse for a piece of a newspaper carefully folded into a very thin rectangle. She unfolded it, and with the front page up, she handed it to Dorothea.

Eilhart read it, carefully, quickly at first, then slowly, letting the words sink in. She felt like she was drowning, quite suitably, as her mind processed everything.

_"CHIEF COMMISSIONER DIES IN A CAR ACCIDENT."_

“No.” She mumbled, folding the paper again and setting it on the table, as far away from herself as she could, like it was moldy or something. “This… This isn’t right.”

“But it is. Delamare had many words to say about you, and all of them were so full of praise I was confused.” She watched Dorothea shake her head as she read the news again, then folded the paper again and put it away, again, in a state of frenzy. “I was wondering what he saw in you, and he provided it, thoroughly. Unexpectedly, even. He knows you quite well.”

“I told him specifically that the man was not to die!” Dorothea whispered, lost, placing her finger on the table. She was barely hearing the other woman; her breathing was out of pace.

“He is a sore loser, Dorothea, and you clearly don’t know him as well as he knows you. He knows, for example, that you’ll be angry and upset over this death. It’s why he did it, in the first place.” Laurent said, a bitter smile in her face that showed well how displeased she was with that whole thing. “It’s like you’ve learned nothing from me. Spreading your legs to a man who reads you like a book. Making childish power games without understanding fully the consequences. Have you any idea of the issues this could present? He could implicate you in this murder.”

“I didn’t even think he meant to pay his side of the bet. I thought he would just ignore it!”

“And lose the opportunity to ruin you? Again, you don’t know him at all. You’re playing a game you don’t understand; this--” She gestured at the newspaper, graceful, calm, so successful in concealing her anger. “--is a mistake you’ve made. A terrible mistake.”

Dorothea leaned back on her chair, raising her eyebrows. She was frustrated, of course, with such news, but showing it was pointless.

“It’s not like the commissioner was a saint, anyway. Corrupted to the core, he was.”

“This isn’t about right and wrong, girl. Delamare did this to spite you, he isn’t happy that you were right.” Madame Laurent said, raising her chin, unimpressed at Dorothea’s attitude. “And he isn’t happy that I’ve denied him either. You’ve placed us at a difficult position.”

“ _Fine._ I might have been careless when I made that bet, but you’re the one who contacted him. He wouldn’t even know about you, if not for that.” Dorothea pointed her finger at Madame Laurent, who slapped it away. Her daemon made a soft noise of displeasure, and some of the other people in the restaurant turned to look at them, but they quickly lost interest when Dorothea lowered her voice. “You tried to bite more than you could chew, and this is the price we’re paying.”

They stared each other in silence, as they had finally reached a point where no arguments were left. Madame Laurent finished her glass of wine, patted her mouth with a napkin, then locked her eyes on Dorothea, who sat stiffly, her wrists resting on the surface of the table, her knife and fork still in hand. She noticed her grip on the knife, as if it was a dagger, and relaxed.

“This is irrelevant.” The older woman finally said. Dorothea clicked her tongue, irritated, and finally dropped the fork and knife on the table. “Stop slouching, sit properly. Have you forgotten your most basic lessons?”

Dorothea did as she was told, more out of habit than anything else. She rubbed her temples, pondering, her mind busy questioning all sorts of future scenarios without the commissioner than actually paying attention to Madame Laurent. The woman’s daemon was quiet, standing majestically by her side, and observing everything. Though his death was unfortunate, and clearly labelled as an accident, Dorothea knew that at the end of the day, the outcome was the same. He would have to be replaced, and this was their chance to have someone decent in his place.

“I brought you here today because I wanted to do you this favour, for free. As a favour for your uncle, who I actually like.” Madame Laurent, snapping her finger in front of Dorothea, taking her away from her thoughts. It was easy to know she was daydreaming because when she came to her senses, her expression turned from neutral to utterly unhappy.

“Of course you do. You’re overestimating my relationship with Marcel. We barely see each other.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Frankly, there isn’t a relationship in the first place.”

“Quite the contrary. You underestimate _him_. You think he sees you as a toy, and he knows that. He says it amuses him, how little credit you give yourself.” Laurent said. Dorothea raised an eyebrow. “Delamare sees you as a worthy opponent, Dorothea, not a toy. That makes you dangerous in his perception, someone to be cautious about, but a useful connection. Instead of harnessing it, you squander it--”

“Please, he is a man, he isn’t an entity. If you hit him, he bleeds just like you and I, trust me, I’ve tested it. And yes, while it’s worrisome that he did fulfill my request, though not professionally and far from literally, you’re making too much of a fuss out of it.” Dorothea mumbled, bored. Astraeus perched on the table, and tilted his little head to look at her, baffled. He clearly didn’t think that was too much fuss. “Believe me, even if he wanted to implicate me, he would have to implicate himself as well, and he won’t do that. Aside from that, Marcel is also the sort of man who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, he avoids scandal like it’s a plague. If he truly did this, which we don’t know for sure--”

“Yes, we do. It’s too convenient timewise for this not be his handiwork.”

“You _think_ he did, but you cannot prove it. But, as I was saying - before you rudely interrupted me - even he truly did it, he would have used an incredible amount of couriers and third parties. He is careful, you won’t be able to connect this to him, or to me.”

“Nonsense. What if he used spyflies to listen to you talking about it? He made a request of those the next morning he went to visit you.”

“He did? How curious! But, as he seems to have failed to tell you, he knows better than to try and spy on me. You see, I scoured the apartment for bugs such as that. He saw me doing it. He enjoys watching it, he likes to known our distrust is mutual.” Dorothea smiled, almost cheerfully, if not morbidly. She also already knew about the spyflies, and how they were meant for Marisa’s use instead; Dorothea, however, had no desire to share that information with Madame Laurent. “As you said so yourself, he knows me quite well. And, to make you feel better, I also checked the flat after he left. I’m not an amateur. Now, I believe there is another reason why you wanted me here for this talk.”

“Yes. I’m here to tell you I’m retiring.”

Dorothea tilted her head, baffled. She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again, without any idea of what to say. Madame Laurent waited patiently for her reaction, watching with a pleasant smile, her glass of wine in hand.

“I’m sorry, what?” Dorothea finally managed to say, with a certain difficulty.

“I’m retiring.”

“That’s nonsense. People in your line of work don’t retire. You usually get killed and replaced or die in obsolescence.”

“Well, I intend to be the first to retire. Delamare made me realise I am not as young and ruthless as I used to be, you here being aided for free is enough of an example.” She sneered, which was amusing, though Dorothea could hardly laugh at that moment.

“You’re afraid of him.”

“Yes, I am, and you should be too, but alas you are far too aroused in your silly games with him to be reasonable.”

Dorothea wanted to tell her to fuck off, but that would’ve been too strong of a blow, and she wanted to see if she could harness more information before ruining things. It was certain she _would_ enrage the woman, eventually, she just wanted a little bit more time before doing that. She bit her thumb, lightly, before saying anything.

“Nonsense. I am not afraid because I know I can kill him, if I need to. Did you know he doesn’t even sleep in the same building I do? He knows what I can do, he doesn’t trust me at all, and he’d rather spend the whole night awake and leave in the morning than risk it.” Dorothea chuckled. “I find that amusing. However, if you think you’d be safer retiring than facing him, so be it.”

“You don’t seem to grasp what I’m actually telling you, Dorothea.” Laurent said. “Once I’m gone, I’ll leave the network behind, orphaned, but intact in some ways. All he has to do, and all he will likely do is restore it. This is trouble for you and Nugent and your associates.”

“Well, you let me worry about that. After all, this is what you taught me all those things for, isn’t it? To handle things on my own.” Dorothea scoffed. “You’re the one who taught me about the uses of keeping men ever so close. Now you chastise me for following that very lesson.”

“If you had him on a leash, I wouldn’t be worried.” Madame Laurent said, raising an eyebrow. “But you clearly don’t. In fact, you have absolutely no control over this whole situation.”

“He is a person, with a personality and free will. It’s not my responsibility if he decides to wreck the world around him. I don’t understand how this even concerns you, if you intend to retire.” Dorothea shook her head, then folded her napkin and placed it on the table. “Well, I’ve heard enough. All you want is to insult me, after all. It’s what you’ve always done.”

“Spare me the speech, you’re no victim. You’re intelligent, cunning, even malicious when you want to be. A little deviant, though you hide well behind your courtesy, your kindness and generosity.”

“Some people have depth, Aurélie, not that you would understand the concept.” Dorothea stood up, preparing to leave, but Madame Laurent leaned against her chair, a smirk on her lips, which made her stagger. It was an expression Dorothea knew well, though she never understood it. It was almost proudful.

“Where are you going?” She asked, while Dorothea snatched the newspaper and shoved it into her purse.

“I’m going to make the most out of a bad situation.” She whispered, leaning in a bit so people wouldn’t see her red face of anger and anxiety. “What else can I do? This is our chance to recover some control over the police, while we still can.”

“It won’t last, darling. Sooner or later, the next commissioner is either gonna be bought or replaced.” Dorothea thought her indifference was, of all things, her worst trait.

“It doesn’t matter.” She spat, angrily. “It’s better than not doing anything.”

Madame Laurent smiled, gently, eerily, in a way that made Dorothea hesitate, standing beside the table.

“You haven’t changed, you know? Still the same you were as a girl. Your uncle said to me, once, that I was being too harsh on you. He suggested that I was perhaps jealous of you, envious of your future, that maybe I resented the possibility of you growing to be more beautiful and graceful than me.” The woman laughed, louder than her usual self. “That was nonsense, of course. You have a beautiful face, but you’re too English, you know that.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned it a hundred times.” Dorothea scorned her, irritated, but the woman didn’t seem to mind her rude tone.

“Indeed. To remind you who you are, and to teach you how to harness your strengths.” The woman said, brushing the table’s cloths she spoke, her daemon watching her, puzzled. Dorothea almost rolled her eyes at that; she thought that was a lousy excuse that mean parents used all the time to justify their lousy behaviour. “You were a lovely girl. Far from beautiful, or graceful, or any charm one would have expected from a teenager, but I blame this on your father, as he waited until he couldn’t deny your gender anymore to actually have you properly educated. Such a quiet, dutiful, submissive girl; he couldn’t have wished for a better daughter, he really couldn’t. You would have done anything he wanted, married anyone, not a struggle, not a scandal. You would have been the perfect wife, for any traditional man out there looking for pleasure or simply a breeding ground. You know that, though, don’t you?”

Dorothea didn’t reply. Her hands were shaking. Astraeus perched on her shoulder, pecking as her earring so they could leave, but she didn’t move.

“You do, darling, I know you do, because you try really hard to stay away from that submissive figure you were. Lucky for you, your papa died soon, a heart attack that dismissed any suggestion of foul play.” The woman smiled, for once genuinely amused. “As I told your uncle before, I’ll tell you now: I was harsh to you because you needed strength. Strength comes from pain, as you learned through all these years, and even now you’ll learn more and more from disgrace, Delamare will teach you that again and what a great teacher he will be.”

“Bullshit. You’re just a mean bitch who took pleasure from making me sob over your insults.” Dorothea held her hands, to prevent them from trembling. "You taught me nothing but that I shouldn't be anything like you."

“Indeed. The world is mean, Dorothea, to our kind more so than others. But Bryce was right, I resented you and your kindness, darling, I resented it so much that I tried my best to take it out of you. It didn’t work, obviously. Even in death, your father was gifted with your sobs, a man who did you nothing but harm, who thought of you as nothing but a headache, a stain in his immaculate life.” Madame Laurent patted her daemon’s head, her eyes wet; Dorothea could sense everyone’s eyes on them, as she had been standing for a while now. She felt uncomfortable, dizzy. “Even now, you sleep with Delamare and gamble with him, without so much as considering the sort of person he is. And while you claim you can get rid of him, if necessary, I don’t believe for a moment you can. You don't have it in you, believe me; I tried to teach you strength, and you’ve chosen selflessness over my lessons, and while some of it stuck, you’re making your own path. Admirable, of course, but ultimately it is sad. He'll eat you alive and spit you out, and perhaps then you'll learn something and change. Darling, I wish I had your heart, I do, but perhaps the lack of it is what made me survive this long, in this line of business. It's why I'm retiring after all!” She laughed, entertained, raising her glass to Dorothea, who could feel her whole body stung from what she just heard. "And I'm not about to give Delamare the pleasure of taking me down. I'm not you, I'm not that easy."

"Fuck you." Dorothea felt like she had heard enough. She searched her purse for money, hectic and antsy, but when she was about to place the money on the table, Madame Laurent seized her wrists, her long, well-manicured nails slightly scratching Dorothea's skin. Astraeus chirped, in distress, flying around her head, like a shimmery crown. She knew the woman did that on purpose, she always did it on purpose, she liked to see Dorothea's eyes water with tears from the pain, but she wasn't a child anymore, so all she did was shake her arm out of the woman's grip.

“Perhaps you have some fire in you, after all. Good for you, it might actually help you in the times to come.” She said, a sour smile on her beautiful face that was like a slap to Dorothea's face. “Let us see how long you will last.”


	14. friends in all places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry for the delay!

_sincerity may be humble_   
_but she cannot be servile_   
**lord byron**

Dorothea didn’t get as scolded by Nugent as she had expected, and although she had to endure his little hints about her relationship with Marcel, he was ultimately not concerned with the commissioner’s death, as it made no difference how the man was removed from his job. While she disagreed with that line of thinking, Dorothea believed that some evils came for good reason, and thus she tried to deal with that as logically as she could. She had worse things to concern herself with after all.

She had arranged to meet Alma in Paris, after Alma mentioned there was a member of the Sigil still in the city, as well as avoid being seen with Alma in England. She didn’t trust that she wasn’t being followed or spied on, and her plan required Alma to not be associated with her.

“You shouldn’t have done it.” Astraeus whispered, while Dorothea was seated in a comfortable chair in the balcony of a hotel they were in. She was waiting for Alma to finish her bath, and her mind began to drift to two weeks past, when she left Madame Laurent.

That day, she went back home, under heavy rain, and she spent the rest of the day sulking and pondering and dreading her free will and absolute lack of wisdom. More importantly, she spent the following days pondering what to do about Marcel, who had committed the dire crime of playing with her patience. He was forgetting his place, as she had thought, and she hated that feeling, because it was in times like that when she realised how entitled she behaved.

“Well, nothing I can do about it now.” She mumbled, sipping her tea, watching the sun set in the horizon, colouring the sky in deep shades of orange, purple, red and black. It was a cold day, but not too unpleasant, a crisp breeze messing her hair and ruffling Astraeus’s orange feathers. They both felt energised, though they were sore with each other and that was an insufferable feeling.

“You should have thought that through.” He chirped, perched beside her teacup and pecking at her finger whenever she reached for it. She hissed, irritated.

Dorothea knew he meant the letter she had written to Marcel about the commissioner. She had pondered extensively over what to do, and ultimately, she realised that whatever she chose to do about it, Marcel would have had the satisfaction either way. Her silence meant she was uncomfortable with his deed, while if she was vocal it would mean he succeeded in upsetting her. So, recklessly, she wrote him an angry letter, disguised under a considerable amount of sarcasm and overly sweet words of praise, and yelled at him - in a way - about what he had done. She had received no replies, and she had expected none, but Astraeus was furious over her attitude, because he considered it childish and foolish. It was both, she knew, but she didn’t want to admit it, especially because his anger came from his emotions, his fear that Dorothea would irritate Marcel enough that he would never address her again and thus, Astraeus wouldn’t see the owl again.

She ignored Astraeus when she heard Alma walk into the bedroom, wearing a dress worn out, with a floral pattern, her hair bundled in the towel. She looked a bit confused, but Dorothea thought it was perhaps the fact she had just taken a shower in one of the most expensive hotels in Paris, after years of living in an abandoned house.

“You look much better!” Dorothea told her, from her place in the balcony. “Are you cold?”

“Just a bit.”

“Grab my fur coat, then, it’s on the bed.” She said, and Alma hesitated. “Go on, it will keep you warm while we talk over here, fresh air will do you good. And I’ve ordered us tea and some snacks. You must be hungry.”

While she waited for Alma, Dorothea gazed at Astraeus, as if asking for him to let her take her tea. If he could roll his eyes, he would have, she knew, but he jumped to the balustrade, annoyed, leaving her alone. As long as they continued to fight like that they wouldn’t be able to focus fully on their job.

Alma finally sat before her, her hair wet and brushed, bundled in Dorothea’s thick, fur coat, looking young and vulnerable. Her daemon sat on the third available chair, and Astraeus came to the armrest to make polite conversation, and they seemed to like each other well enough, though Aion was quiet and thoughtful. Dorothea knew he wouldn’t like to be too close to Alma when she was wearing her coat, as her scent would be upsetting to him; most daemons didn’t like to touch other people’s personal objects if they could help. But, aside from that, she could sense his anger with Alma, how misplaced they felt near each other. It was sad, to see them like that, but they tried their best to look formal and polite, so she did the same and respected their privacy. Before meeting Alma, it never occurred to her to think so much about the daemon relationship.

“Are we gonna stay here long?” Alma asked, a little uneasy.

“You mean Paris? Well, for a couple of days, at least. I’d like to know more about that Sigil member I’ve heard is still in town and I need to brief you in your mission.”

“I see.” She seemed concerned. Dorothea knew why, and she crossed her legs the other way, before addressing Alma. She tried to offer her a comforting grin.

“You’re worried you’ll be recognised.”

She saw Alma’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. Then she sipped her tea and nodded.

“How do you know?” She asked, and Dorothea laughed.

“Well, I did my homework.” She covered the side of her mouth and whispered: “I’d be a very poor spy if I hadn’t. I know everything there is to know about you. Your real name, your old career, old friends… and I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.” She added, after Alma went pale. “I have no intention of discussing this or disclosing it to anyone else. I just needed to know who you are.”

“You could have asked.” Her voice had a slight hint of dissatisfaction.

“And you wouldn’t have answered truthfully. Trust me, Alma, I know people like you; I am, in fact, like you. Always ready to give someone a headache, and more importantly, a good liar with excessive caution.” She chuckled and Alma seemed to relax. “And if it’s any consolation, I actually have a copy of my file from Oakley Street, so you could read about me too. It’s only fair, I’d say.”

She searched her purse for the file, a folder in a bland yellow colour, with the stamp and name of the Office of the Private Purse, the official name of Oakley Street. She handed the file to Alma, who held it a little unsure of what to do.

“All I ask is that you wait until we find your former friend here in Paris, before you read the files. There’s something in there I need to explain fully to you, and that will require my full attention, which I can’t do until we finish our business here.” Astraeus shook his little head and she sighed, as Alma held the file against her chest. The little note on her file was her _“dubious relationship with a Magisterium official”_ that she still resented Nugent for. “I know I just made you twice as curious by saying that, but I need you to have a little patience.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell me, who is this man we’re after?” Dorothea leaned back against her chair, watching as Alma placed the files on her legs, sitting straight on her chair, looking small inside Dorothea’s coat. She was almost thirty, she knew, but Alma looked much younger in her helplessness.

“His name is René, he used to be an assistant at the _Bibliothèque de la Sorbonne_ , here in Paris. Not my assistant though, he helped the older librarian.” She said, thinking hard before continuing. “Yes, yes. He was very helpful to the cause, though no one knew what were his skills in details. All I remember is that he delivered lots and lots of messages, he knew Paris very well.”

“Interesting. You mentioned before that the Sigil likely fell because of an inside source.” Dorothea yawned and she nodded. “Could it have been this man?”

Alma thought, for a moment, biting her lower lip. Her daemon observed everything, quietly, while also listening to Astraeus.

“It’s possible.” Alma said, though she seemed unsure. “If they found a way to communicate with him, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“René is mute. Unless they found a way to talk to him, or understand him, he couldn’t have said anything to them.”

“He could have written things down.” Dorothea pointed out and Alma nodded, a little tired.

“True, but he would still be writing to this day if that were the case. There are things that just can’t be written, fonetical codes, specific passwords… I won’t say that I trust him with my life, because that isn’t true; I barely knew him. But I have confidence that the chances of him betraying us are very low.” She sighed, scratching her neck. “I don’t know, I just can’t picture him as a traitor, unless they really coerced him into doing.”

“Well, that isn’t very good.” Dorothea breathed out, watching as the sun went down, darkness falling over them. The monkey went inside and turned the lights on, before returning to his place. Watching him move to such a big distance and not having any of them wince was disconcerting, but Dorothea was becoming desensitised to it already; Astraeus not so much. “Don’t get me wrong, but I had hoped to find someone you trusted without a doubt. If he could be a threat… This changes things.”

Alma simply nodded, her hands holding Dorothea’s file, watching her with curious eyes. Dorothea finally click her tongue and got up, in a for of energy. Astraeus flew to her shoulder, shimmery in the warm orange light coming from inside the bedroom. She stretched her arms and her neck.

“Rene doesn’t have any family, or anyone as far I knew. Not much room to blackmail him either, I suppose.”

“True, families tend to be the weakest point of people… I don’t know. Well, we can’t prepare for everything, so we’ll just see what we can do tomorrow.” She gestured for Alma would follow her. “Let’s dine out tonight, I’m starving.”

*******

They woke up early in the next morning, a thin rain washing away the stone streets and the colourful buildings, replacing all the warmth and tint with a horrid shade of grey. The cold also didn’t help them very much, while they made their way from awning to awning, trying to stay as dry as they could. They could have waited for the rain to stop, of course, but Dorothea wanted Alma to move and walk and see people. Her stillness did nothing to heal her; she could sense her sadness even without effort, looming around her like the ghost of something cruel.

Dorothea tried not to laugh at Alma’s poor attempt to not ask her deliberate questions about what was in her files, but she sensed Alma’s wariness and that worried her. As expected, Alma had waited until she went to sleep to read the file, and she was not struggling with her thoughts over Lady Eilhart. Dorothea could hardly blame her; a woman so submerged in tragedy was expected to be extra wary of everything, including a spy whose love life was questionable, at the very least.

They finally reached the library, a formidable building that pierced through the gray sky and the rain. Alma and Dorothea made for the door, fast, their shoes making a faint splash noise as they ran, small puddles under their feet.

The place wasn’t very crowded, the intense smell of paper, leather and a soft hint of a flowery scent, probably some cleaning product recently applied nearby, that was intoxicating. Alma took off the fur coat Dorothea lended her, her monkey shaking his body to get rid of any droplets that might have found him. Dorothea and Astraeus did the same, both feeling very cold.

“He should be at that desk, if he still works in the same job.” Alma whispered, but even her quiet voice somehow seemed to spread across the place. No one really bothered to look at them, and Dorothea tried to dress in muted tones, a simple dress, a simple hairstyle; anything to avoid attention.

Together they walked towards the end of the room, passing by different wooden tables, all lined up next to big windows that cast the daylight inside, while small anbaric lamps decorated the ceilings, all turned on now because the day was unusually dark.

The man at the desk was roughly in his forties, slender and strong, tall. His hair was very dark, curly, a complexion that was somewhere between dark and light. He had intense green eyes, an expression of caution that Dorothea recognised well, though he tried his best to conceal it under a shy stance, shoulders slouched, head down.

He was talking, or at least, being spoken to by a boy around fifteen, who was doing his best job of arguing without speaking too loudly. Dorothea and Alma watched the exchange a few steps away, while the young man had his hands on the desk, palms opens while hissing to the man Alma identified as René.

“Well, check again! It was supposed to be here!” The boy said; his daemon, a sparrowhawk, was perched on his shoulder, perhaps a little too big for the boy’s yet still small figure. He would be tall and thin one day, Dorothea thought, but there was nothing bulky about him; his face red and with pimples, his dark hair brushed carefully to the back of his head. Everything about him screamed _sly_ , thought he still was very awkward.

René shrugged, sighed, then leaned forward to read at a big and thick book, that Dorothea recognised as a book of entries. While he was immersed, she caught herself staring at the young man, for a reason she couldn’t quite understand. It was as if something was pulling at the back of her head, like a fish line, subtle, distant, insistent. She could only see his profile, but his daemon noticed she was looking and whispered to him, causing him to turn to her; she felt something cold down her spine.

“It can’t be.” She mumbled and Alma heard, her hand reaching for Dorothea’s elbow. Astraeus pecked at Dorothea’s cheek to snap her out of her nonsense.

“What’s wrong?” Alma said.

The young man examined her and saw she was staring at him, wide eyes, frowning, her arms immediately crossed over her chest. She knew it was her mind tricking her, but the scar on her back stung, sharp. Her whole body shivered. The boy frowned back.

“What are you staring at?” He hissed in French, quite rudely, and his daemon opened her wings briskly. Astraeus chirped irritated, and Dorothea quickly came to her senses.

“What are _you_ staring at?” She mocked him back, though her heart was beating fast. He was strikingly familiar, and when she watched him unimpressed, he blushed and turned back to René, who gestured to him in sign language. The boy hissed, irritated.

“I can’t understand you! Can’t you just write it?”

“He said the book you want has been taken by another student.” Alma said, and René looked at her, wide eyes; she nodded at him and approached the desk. The man gestured again, and she translated it. “He says you will have to come back next week if you want it, and very early too, because other students have interest in the book as well.”

The boy snorted, irritated, but intimidated or perhaps humiliated by Dorothea’s attitude - something he didn’t seem to be used to - and he took the other two books and walked away, dragging his feet. Dorothea saw but a glimpse of the books, all about alethiometry; she raised an eyebrow, but quickly dismissed the thought.

“What a lousy boy!” Alma said, watching her monkey climb on the desk. Dorothea rested against it as well, taking the boy place and René’s eyes flickered over her, up and down. She saw him frown, worried, though she pretended she didn’t for the sake of friendliness.

“Indeed. His name wouldn’t happen to be Bonneville, would it?” She asked René, who watched her for a second before nodding. She raised her eyebrows, a little confused; looking back, she could see the small figure of the boy, seated at the very far corner table.

“Bonneville? As in Gerard Bonneville, the physicist?” Alma asked, and Dorothea yawned before answering.

“Yes, the very same. I heard he had a son Too bad though, those were some bad genes to spread around.” She laughed quietly when Alma stated at her, slightly horrified. “Sorry, I’ll tell you all about it later. As of now, perhaps you should introduce me to your friend.”

Alma did, explaining to René why they were there. While she spoke, Dorothea observed him with a lazy caution, just enough that he wouldn’t think she was measuring him, though she noticed how wary he was of her. His daemon was a hare, her fur in a soft shade of caramel, lying on the desk just as lazily as Dorothea’s attitude, and just like Dorothea, she was watching back.

When Alma finished her speech, René shook his head, and took a step back from the desk, waving his hand in a denial gesture. Alma turned her head to Dorothea, anxious, while Aion tried to talk to René’s daemon, only to have her jump in his arms, both very wary. Dorothea had been busy looking at Alma’s reaction, but Astraeus was paying attention and whispered in Dorothea’s ear.

“She’s whispering to him.” His urgent tone had a reason: how was she whispering if they were mute? It wasn’t unusual for daemons and humans not to be afflicted by the same condition, but most of time, in cases like blindness or deafness it was, if those were traits one had been born with. She had assumed that was the case with René and his lack of speech; now, Dorothea wasn’t so sure anymore, which wasn’t reassuring of their position.

“I understand your caution, monsieur. We’re simply here to ask a few questions, you see.” She tapped her knuckles against the wooden desk, and his eyes darted to her, composed but far from calm, holding his daemon to his breast. “Were you arrested during the Magisterium purge? Forgive my bluntness, but you look like a man who has been through a lot.”

He blinked twice, a little confused, then looked back at Alma, who nodded, encouragingly.

“She’s a friend, René. We just want to know how is the state of things here.”

He nodded, at last, shyly. Too shy, Dorothea thought; everything about him was a perfect display of modesty, shyness, caution. The way his shoulders were slouched, the way he looked so obviously like someone meek, despite his strong build. It was all very beautifully rehearsed, she felt, but she couldn’t just act on her feelings; in a situation like that she needed proof.

“Do you have any contact with former _Le Murmure_ members?” She asked, quietly, and his eyes widened, but he shook his head. 

She bit the inside of her mouth, thinking, observing, as René placed his daemon on the desk again and began to speak to Alma in sign language. He was hasty, anxious, his hands moving quickly between one gesture, then another, and Alma followed it, easily, speaking something in return, not quite as skillful as he did, but more skilled than most people could do.

“He says he wants no trouble. He was arrested and hasn’t seen nor contacted anyone from the group since he was released. He didn’t say, but I think he was tortured.” She glanced at him pity and a sense of understanding in her eyes; he looked away, ashamed, fearful, hurt. Dorothea sighed. “I think we should leave him be, Dorothea.”

Alma hadn’t noticed Dorothea’s suspiciousness yet, but her daemon was watching Lady Eilhart, as he himself didn’t quite trust Dorothea and she was immensely amused by that. However, as he watched her, he noticed she had doubts about René and while he didn’t say anything to Alma, his own awareness spread to her as a faint sensation. No one in that vicinity was sure of anything.

“I think you might be right.” She said at last, and Astraeus asked her quietly, what was she doing? She had already thought of a half plan, but she couldn’t tell him because she realised René was far more keen than he let on. She looked inside her purse and pulled a card. “Far be it from me to traumatise an already troubled man. This is our hotel, here in Paris, if you decide you want to help us after all or if you need assistance. Thank you for your time, monsieur.”

Alma followed her when she turned away from the desk and they both made their way out of the building. On her way out, Dorothea eyed Olivier Bonneville quickly, and cautiously enough he didn’t notice, but Alma or Aion did.

“How did you know Bonneville?” She asked, as Dorothea took a quick look at the sky; it was pouring but very faintly.

“How did _you_ know Bonneville? He was already dead when you became a librarian.” She said, Alma holding her arm as they walked casually under the rain, quickly enough to avoid getting too wet.

“He used to work at the University when I was a student.” She explained, and Dorothea felt her curious gaze, as she seemed to remember something that had eluded her so far. “Before he went to prison for what he did to those girls.”

“I see. I hope you have managed to evade him during your academic years.” It was all Dorothea said; she knew Alma wanted to make sure she was the person Alma was thinking of, and she was, but that subject was easily her least favourite thing to discuss. Besides that, she had more urgent matters to attend to.

“I have.” Alma said, much to Dorothea’s relief. The last thing she needed was another victim of a man she was not responsible for, though she felt and acted like she was. “Have you?”

Dorothea sideyed Alma, and grinned, bitterly.

“I wasn’t as lucky.” She pulled Alma closer, when she opened her mouth to say something, probably words to comfort Dorothea. That stopped her, thankfully. “Alma, I need you to carefully make sure we are not being followed. Don’t worry,” she added in a whisper when she felt Alma grow stiff, her fingers tightening around her arm. “It’s your friend, René.”

“What do you mean?” Alma began to turn, instinctively, but Dorothea pulled her violently towards herself again, and disguised the sudden movement by pretending to drag Alma to see a dress in a showcase. “Why is he following us?”

“I’d very much like to know that.” Dorothea sighed, gesturing mindlessly at the dress; Alma followed her cue, looking excited about what was an incredibly boring piece of fashion. “I have a plan. Well, sort of.”

“Reassuring.” The monkey mocked her loudly, and she clicked her tongue to shush him, while Astraeus discreetly peeked through her hair to see. René was a good tracker, they realised, keeping out of sight quite skillfully, pretending to read a paper or looking at a showcase, sometimes stopping altogether. She walked with Alma around the city, visiting shops and a cafe, then a park, up until it was noon and it had stopped raining.

Eventually they made their way to the hotel, a little humid and on edge, sore feet from walking for hours and hours, and there was enough of a distance between them and René that once inside, Dorothea pulled Alma aside, hastily, and whispered:

“Take the lift, get in the room, open the door only when I say so.”

Alma was quick to obey, taking the key and barely watching what Dorothea was doing. While the younger woman took the lift, Dorothea made her way through the stairs, quickly and as quiet as she could, and that was a long distance to climb. She expected René to take the lift as well, she was counting on it, and she was right.

Once she arrived at the floor of the bedroom, she heard the soft noise of the lift arriving too and she leaned against the wall, taking a glance from her cover. René walked out of it, followed by his hare daemon, both hastily walking towards the room. He seemed to know where he was going, which indicated he might have asked for the number at the reception, or he had been spying on them already.

“Or Alma told him.” Astraeus suggested, inconveniently, and Dorothea dismissed that, despite knowing very well that was a serious possibility. Alma spoke his sign language well enough, and Dorothea had to trust her for accurate translations, when Alma was always so inclined to lie and omit. Those were complex thoughts, though, and she had no time for them at that moment.

René stopped by the door and examined it, at first, his daemon trying to see beneath the door. He tried to twist the handle, and found it locked; his whole body moved when he sighed. Dorothea sneaked up behind him, holding her gun at his back.

“Don’t be funny, don’t try to run. If you make me chase you in heels I will kill you before hearing what you have to say.” She hissed, taking a step forward and having her gun barrel touch his back. He raised his hands, an expression of surprise and defeat in his eyes. She took a step to stand beside him so she could see his face, then with her heel she knocked on the door the gun still pointing at him. “Open up, Alma. It’s alright.”

Alma did, Aion by her feet as she watched that bizarre scene, confused, a little hurt perhaps, given that was another betrayal in her books. René began to gesture avidly.

“He says he wanted to warn us the city isn’t safe, Magisterium everywhere.” She translated, mildly astonished by how fast he was gesturing.

“Why were you following us?” Dorothea asked, her gun pointing at his face; his eyes darted her up and down, a blank expression, while he still gestured to Alma. She knew that wasn’t lust, he was measuring her trying to find a weak spot: her wounded shoulder and how she wasn’t as physically strong as he was. He could get away before she could shoot, René just didn’t know that yet.

“He said he just meant to help us, he wasn’t following. He used the card to track us down.” Alma said, frowning. Dorothea scoffed, and that made René look back at her, as Aion cornered the hare daemon.

“Bullshit. The card I gave you is an address to another hotel.”

He tried conceal the surprise, but she noticed how his eyebrows moved slightly. Dorothea could almost swear his mouth twitched into a smirk. René turned to Alma and gestured again, fast, intense, desperate, still at gunpoint.

“I heard the warrior trees of Warsaw have blossomed rivers, what do you think?” Dorothea mumbled, randomly in her thick German, and both Alma and René looked at her. He had his mouth open as if he had meant to say _what?_ She smiled coolly and he smiled back, but she didn’t lower her gun.

“You might as well tell us what you want, darling.” She said, and he seemed to have decided she had won that little exchange, because he lowered his hands and turned to face her.

“You’re a clever one, Lady Eilhart.” He said, in English, and although it was good English, it had a hint of an accent, though it wasn’t French.

 _German, perhaps_ , Dorothea thought, examining him carefully. _No, it was different. Muscovite._

“You can talk?” Alma said, incredulous, and René laughed.

“Well, yes.” He switched back to French, perfect, at least to Dorothea’s ears. “Though I’ve been a mute since, I don’t know, ten years ago or so? It’s been a long time and it’s a rather long story.”

“Which we will love to hear, once you’re inside the room, preferably not shot.” Dorothea said, touching the barrel of the gun against his chest, gesturing with her head for him to walk in. “Go on, monsieur. We have a lot to discuss.”


	15. not everyone's free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again!  
> A few considerations: I always do some research, sometimes a mild research or a very thorough one depending on the subject, especially for names, and I did for Mikail's/René's name, but I couldn't really grasp how Russian or other Slavic language make their names. So, to avoid making a hideous mistake, I just didn't give him a last name in Russian lmao
> 
> I also tried to tap a bit into the Muscovite Army/Swiss Army in this chapter, but I'm still working on that in future chapters. Essentially, Philman seems to have forgotten all about the Muscovite Army in TSC, but I sure as hell have not lmao so, the premise is the Muscovite Army is a branch controlled by the CCD in Muscovy, while the Swiss Army serves the entire Magisterium, but they only have authority in Switzerland.

_the great art of life is sensation,  
_ _to feel that we exist_ , _even in pain._  
 **lord byron**

“So, care to explain why you were following us?” Dorothea asked, sitting across him in the balcony, while Alma brought them drinks. She sat on the chair between them, leaning closer to Dorothea and staring at René with an expression of sheer distrust.

“It’s what I told you. I came to tell you that the Magisterium presence in the city is widespread.” He took a sip of his drink, staring her down, not looking meek like he did before. His French was smooth, none of his accent showing through like it did when he spoke in English. His daemon, unlike him, was not relaxed, trying to stay still in his lap, eyes darting everywhere anxiously.

“Which I’m already aware of, thank you.”

“Yet you parade through the city with a woman they have already arrested for conspiracy, asking questions about a group that used to send shivers down their spines.” He shook his head, grimacing. “Not clever.”

“I don’t need your opinion, only your information, so I suggest you start talking, before I change my mind and shoot you.”

He sighed, and didn’t say anything. Dorothea watched him closely, her gun resting on the coffee table; his eyes had darted there a few times and it amused her, but he didn’t move. Her assessment was that he wouldn’t try to run away, but she could never fully be sure of anything, so she was ready to make a move if tried to reach for the gun or anything like that. She believed she could take him down alone if he tried anything, as Alma didn’t look much like a bruiser; Astraeus disagreed but only through intent, on both accounts.

“The only way you’re walking out of here is if you explain yourself.” Dorothea said, and he grinned. She felt Alma hold her breath, her daemon watching their exchange with a vivid interest.

“I could just lie.”

“True, but if I am not satisfied with your explanation, I’m just gonna shoot you and drop you off the balcony. Or maybe call the police on you, whichever I deem worse.” She smiled, gently. “Please, don’t test my patience. Who the hell are you and why did you follow us when we willingly went looking for you?”

He took a deep breath, and Dorothea felt like he was pondering what to do. In his shoes, she felt like she would have appreciated time to think, and thus she gave him all the time he required. Anything that would make him talk.

“Name’s Mikail. I used to work for the Department of Intelligence of Muscovy, and I was assigned, ten or twelve years ago, to infiltrate _Le Murmure_.” Alma looked at him, furious, and he didn’t avoid her stare, instead directing most of his words at her. Dorothea realised he seemed to like Alma, or at least, respect her; that seemed promising. “So, they sent me to France to build a life here, but because my French wasn’t super good at the time, we decided it was best if I could assume the identity of a mute person, so my origins wouldn’t be questioned. As you know, the different groups of Le Murmure only recruits within their own region, so they couldn’t know I hailed from Muscovy, since they have a branch there too.”

“But your sign language is so… so good!” Alma protested, and he nodded, his eyes flashing to Dorothea every now and again. She watched everything with a lazy grin and a blank expression in her eyes, but her mind was sharp. Every movement of his was tracked.

“My eldest sister, she is mute herself, so we learned the language since we were children, both for French and in our own language. I suppose that is why they suggested it to me in the first place, to impersonate a mute person.” He scratched his eyebrow, then rested against his chair. “At any rate, here I came, and I worked here and there until I caught the attention of one of the members of _Le Murmure_. They recruited me because I was quick, clever and discrete and the fact I couldn’t speak meant it was difficult for me to leak information.”

Dorothea nodded, and her aloofness seemed to make him uneasy. He pressed his own fingers, anxious, watching her as she measured him with a lack of interest that was, of course, fake but still disconcerting. She couldn’t tell if she fully believed him, spies were good liars and he seemed to have a full story prepared, but something underneath all that rang true, so she allowed herself to remain, at the very least, open-minded.

“So, you are a spy working for the Muscovite government? That’s interesting. What did you hope to achieve by infiltrating _Le Murmure_?”

“I _was_ a spy. As you probably are aware, the Muscovite government was overthrown by the Magisterium a decade ago, a year or two after I came to France, and when they did, the Intelligence department was wrecked then rebuilt to suit their needs. Spies like me, in independent operations, were abandoned or hunted down, especially the ones who were working to disfavour the Magisterium.” He said, calmly, though she could see his eyes glittering with something intense. “Me and my handler had to keep a low profile, but we continued to do our job, in case the government was recovered.”

“And that job was?”

He glanced at Alma, shifting his stance on the chair, uncomfortable. Then his eyes went back to Dorothea, stern and confident.

“ _Le Murmure_ seemed to be involved with several shady businesses across Europe, including an opium trade. While opium is not strictly illegal in Muscovy, several commercial treaties state that we can only acquire the product from specific countries, usually political allies.” He said, and Alma shook her head in disbelief, her daemon watching René over her shoulder. Aion murmured something to her ear, and she shuddered. “However, as you can imagine, several trades happen underground, and in one of those trades came a dealer that sold a bad batch of opium. I don’t understand chemistry to explain what was wrong with it, but what we know is that it was not proper opium. It had been mixed with other chemicals to thicken the product and boost its quantity. Opium also is used in several difference medicine productions, so you can imagine how far that bad batch went. Hospitals, pharmacies, even your local healers, not to mention the addicts who consumed the thing in its purest form.”

Dorothea felt a shiver down her spine. She could imagine, and she had the vague memory of someone talking about that very same thing a long time ago.

“How many deaths?” She asked, her voice faltering just a little.

“Thousands. Children, elderly, healthy adults; soldiers in the front line and soldiers at headquarters. It was a silent massacre that we could not stop because the products were everywhere and we couldn’t tell them apart.” He rubbed his temples, his shoulders tense. Dorothea watched for any signs of deception, yet she found none, though that wasn’t reassuring at all. He could just be a very good liar. “We tried, of course, but it was too late. So, intelligence was put in charge to investigate how that came into the country. I imagine they wanted to publicly denounce someone and have them arrested and trialed. We learned that The Sigil, or _Le Murmure_ , or whatever you call it, was associated with the delivery of the opium, though it was hard to say how and who did it.”

“That’s not possible!” Alma mumbled, and he offered her a comforting smile.

“Unfortunately, it is the truth, Alma. It’s why I came to France after all, to figure out who was it. We narrowed it down to France, Geneva and Spain. It was someone here, or a group of people, who had ties to Le Murmure.”

“That’s your word against theirs! Why should we trust you?” Alma turned to Dorothea, breathing heavily, Aion clinging to her back, distressed. Dorothea leaned forward and held the woman’s hand tight. “We can’t trust him! This doesn’t make sense! We were academics, not drug dealers!”

“ _You_ were an academic, dear, but the people high up in the hierarchy, those were influential men and women, who most of the times were greedy, immoral bastards. It took me years of investigating, fact checking, all while struggling with the lack of backup since my government had changed hands and I was disowned here. But I figured it out that Jean-Luc Belrose was behind the opium trade.” He turned his head to Dorothea, who had a puzzled expression. “He was the leader of _Le Murmure._ ”

“No. No!” Alma stood up, almost throwing Aion away; he went to her arms to try and calm her down. Her hands were shaking, Dorothea noticed her eyes were wet with tears. René watched her, unflinching, almost with pity in his expression. “That’s not true! He wouldn’t do anything like that!”

“I wouldn’t claim something like this about him, especially not to you, Alma, but I did my homework and the man was crooked, to say the least. He was a criminal, and worst of all, he was a traitor.” He turned to Dorothea, as she helped seat Alma again; she kneeled before the woman, her hands on her knees to keep her down, careful not to touch Aion. Dorothea wiped her tears away as gently as she could. “Belrose wanted to benefit the Magisterium, he tried at all costs to convince the other directors of the groups to join them. Almost all of them disagreed, except for two or three. Ironically, not even the Geneva group joined in his favour. He already had an opium trade firm, and he already traded underground on many countries, including my own.”

“And one day his products just showed up poisoned. I see. It all connects, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Alma said. “This can’t be true. Jean-Luc would never join the Magisterium, I trusted him with my life.”

“I know you did, in fact, I understand why you do. Lady Eilhart is right, though, it all connects. You see, when my country was afflicted by the mass poisoning, we were debilitated, incapable of dealing with the crisis on our own. Muscovy on its own already struggles with a lot of inner fighting as it is, we were in no shape to have a health crisis; that’s when the Magisterium offered to help. We welcomed the Swiss Army with open arms, with their medicine and doctors, and they helped us yes, and slowly established themselves in the country, then twisted the government and took over. All silently, a masterwork. That was carefully planned, I have proof that Jean-Luc did it for them, Alma.”

“You can say whatever you want, I don’t trust you! I don’t believe in you!” She spat. “I don’t even know you. You’re a liar!”

“True, for all accounts. I’m a spy, by nature I am a liar and a cheat, but you don’t have to take my word that all I just told you is true. There was someone from _your_ government that was also investigating this, an agent. Gilda? Gerda? Something like that. Ask her, she even talked to me, though I never told her who I really was.”

“You don’t suppose you mean Glenys, do you? Glenys Godwin?”

“I think so. Short woman, dark hair, very stoic. Clever too, she’s the one that suggested that the poisoning was connected to the coup of Muscovy. I never understood why the English government was interested in that, though.”

“Probably trying to defend themselves in case the Magisterium tried the same in England. I’ll have a word with Godwin, see what she knows, she’s my friend.” Dorothea told Alma, who had her eyes stuck with René’s; she couldn’t tell what Alma was feeling, but whatever that was, it was intense. “When exactly you and Godwin met?”

“A couple of months before the Sigil fell.” He said, with a sad smirk, and Dorothea sideyed him; he had saw through her question after all, knowing exactly where she was going. “Yes, like you said, it all connects. I believe your friend, or perhaps someone else - God knows who else was investigating this - probably confronted or were a bit too careless around Belrose. That might have tipped him off that someone was on his trail. No more than six months later, _Le Murmure_ fell, alongside its other countries counterparts. A massacre doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“No. No, no, no…” Alma began again, and Dorothea felt her agitation, and placed her hands on tops of hers, holding them tight. “You can’t be serious about this. He didn’t do it.”

“I cannot prove it, Alma, but all the evidence points to it. He was afraid that the justice system would get to him and expose him, so he created a distraction by selling out the society in exchange for some help to flee the country. It was a hefty price, in my opinion, he didn’t just betray his own regional group but he ratted on everyone. Every single one of them, arrested, killed and tortured. You, me, a great deal of us.” He saw Alma’s horrified face, and sighed; his daemon went to Aion who was sobbing next to Alma, and he denied the hare’s comforting touch by recoiling in his place. “I am sorry, Alma. Truth be told, I never wanted you to know this because I know how much Jean-Luc meant to you, but the evidence connecting him to the opium poisoning is solid.”

“This doesn’t make any sense!” She turned to Dorothea, desperate. She clung to Dorothea’s arms, pleading. “He helped me. He is the one that used his influence to release me from custody.”

“Perhaps his consciousness got to him. I understand he was rather fond of you, but if you want my honest opinion, even if it is worth nothing to you, he didn’t care enough. He could’ve helped you evade arrest from the start, if he really cared about anything other than himself.” René sighed. “Besides, he didn’t help Nadia, nor me, nor anyone else. He sold us out and took off, thousands of deaths on his head.”

Alma surrendered to the tears, and Dorothea held her tight, feeling her wet face against her shoulder. She soothed Alma the best she could, while Astraeus spoke to the monkey, and they finally managed to calm them down. Alma sat straight again, wiping the tears off her cheeks, and tried to speak with her muffled voice.

“I need to speak to him. To Jean-Luc, I mean.”

“You can’t, darling.” Dorothea said, pushing a lock of the woman’s hair behind her ear. Alma opened her mouth to protest, but Dorothea shook her head. “He’s dead, Alma. I remember reading it some time ago, one of my professors was rather fond of his work. He was killed in a robbery gone wrong in the Austral Empire, not long after the Sigil’s fall.”

“It is believed that was an assassination. Probably the Magisterium cleaning up loose ends.” René said, grimly.

Alma just couldn’t react anymore, which worried Dorothea immensely. She pressed Alma’s hand gently, trying to get her attention.

“Go lie down and rest, darling. You need it. René’s… What do you want me to call you, by the way?” She turned to him and he shrugged.

“René will do. I haven’t been Mikail in a long, long time.”

“Very well. René’s English agent, Glenys Godwin, she’s my friend, a very good friend. I’ll call her and ask what she knows about this whole mess, that way you don’t have to take his word alone as proof.” She helped Alma to stand up and walked her back into the bedroom, helping her lie down. “Please, rest and stay calm, alright? I’ll have an answer for you later.”

She took Alma’s damp shoes off.

“It’s gonna be alright, I promise you.”

Alma grabbed Dorothea’s hand tight, and she looked up, looking at her desolate face. She gave Alma’s hand a squeeze, fierce, to support what Alma needed, which was somewhere to anchor herself. Her lips quivered, her eyes swollen.

“It… it wasn’t me.” She whispered, and shut her eyes to try and hold the tears back, but that was pointless. Dorothea hugged her, resting her hand on the back of Alma’s head. “I always thought it had been me, but it wasn’t. It was him.”

“Everything will be alright, Alma.” Dorothea said again, a tremendous effort to prevent her voice from faltering. She didn’t know for sure, but that sounded like a lie. She helped her settle down, placing the blankets over her.

“Will you be alone with him?” Alma asked, nodding at the balcony. Dorothea saw René’s silhouette against the balustrade, watching the city.

“I can handle him, don’t worry. Just rest.”

She made her way back to the balcony and closed the doors to lower their noise. René was a stoic man, she realised, filled with sadness and a sense of emptiness she dreaded. It was the image of someone who had been defeated.

“I wish you hadn’t made me talk about this in front of her.” He said, when Dorothea stopped by his side. She let out a heavy sigh.

“She’s stronger than you give her credit for. She’ll survive, it’s what she’s been doing for a while now.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“It’s far too good of a story for it to be fake, and I have heard of the poisonings too, so it makes sense. I don’t trust you though, I hope you’ll forgive me for that.”

“Certainly. Lucky me, found out by an Oakley Street member.” He smiled coolly, while Astraeus spoke to his daemon, seated at his chair.

“You wouldn’t happen to know which group in the Magisterium that man Belrose was dealing with, would you?” She asked, bluntly, and he raised his eyebrows, disconcerted. “They aren’t a single entity, so there must be specific groups and people he dealt with, especially with that poisoning business.”

“I can’t be certain, but I know he was close with a man called Auguste Binaud, though from what I understand he was a pious man leading a very unimportant group called _La Maison Juste_. Have you heard of them?”

It was hard not to laugh, but she managed.

“Yes, I have. Binaud retired a year ago or so. Could it have been them?”

“It’s possible, but based on this man’s profile, I am not super inclined to believe he was behind mass poisoning like that. If I had to guess, I’d say the CCD.”

“Yes, the whole thing stinks of CCD nonsense.” She sighed, and glanced at the doors of the balcony. “Belrose and Alma - were they lovers?”

“No, worse.” René said, and she raised an eyebrow. “He was her mentor. Taught her everything she knew, pretty much introduced her to the group. She loved him like a father.”

“Well, this is bad. Easier to mend a heart broken by romance, than by a familial bond like that.” She observed as he watched the city himself, stern, his thumb brushing against his chin. “Tell me the truth, why did you follow us? You could have just confronted me.”

It took him some time to answer, but he finally sighed, and looked at her, those bright eyes that unnerved her. He was a man of easy laughter who hadn’t laughed in a long time.

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t an assassin. Even with Alma, I couldn’t be sure, so I had to follow you, watch your activities to be certain you weren’t trying to murder me.” René chuckled. “Old habits die hard, I suppose, and I did a poor job of it because you caught me.”

“Why didn’t you go back to Muscovy? I mean, I thought you people were patriots and all that. Why stay here after everything that happened?”

He laughed, heartily.

“First of all, that generalization, that’s rude.”

“Sorry.” Her grin was almost indecent.

“Second, you misunderstand the situation in Muscovy. My country didn’t fell to dogma and a looming threatening presence; it was invaded by an army, it was engulfed by their officials, it turned politicians against each other.” His jaw was tense, his fists, clenched; she could see his whole body harden as he spoke, a frown in his face, he looked older and more tired now. “Every child that is born there, since the Magisterium took over, grows up thinking that the Church is the ultimate authority, they created a whole military program to make it mandatory for them to enlist to the Muscovite Army, which now is focused on suppressing East and Central Asia, subduing them to the Magisterium. Muscovites don’t have a choice, Lady Eilhart, not like you, not like the French or the Swiss do. You have the freedom to make a choice, even if the CCD tries to suppress some of the aspects of your life, but in Muscovy that choice no longer exists. It’s either follow or die, and even following, your quality of life still is pretty miserable. In France, these posh academics sit around a table drinking fancy wine and debating whether it is worth it to bow to the Magisterium in exchange of academic freedom, but in Muscovy if you so much as think about breaking a rule, you disappear without a trace and that is the end of that, if they don’t punish your whole family for it.”

“Not everyone’s free, believe me. Muscovy is no longer a welcoming place, and as bad as France is right now, it doesn’t compare to the situation there, not even close.” He sighed, rubbing his face, ruffling his hair before addressing her again. “I’ve been trying to bring Anya, my sister, to Paris, but it’s not easy, and I don’t think she can escape like the refugees do. It’s a rough journey, and her disability makes her an easy target.”

“I have connections. I can make it happen.” Dorothea said, leaning her back against the balustrade; Astraeus flew back to her shoulder, and together they examined that stranger in front of them. Considering all her affiliations, she believed that recruiting René wasn’t even remotely as bad as anything else she had already done, like telling Marcel about Oakley Street.

René watched her, with caution. It was clear that neither of them trusted each other, though they seemed to immediately like each other and there were worse ways of making friends.

“And what would that cost?” He asked, with a smirk.

“Well, usually I don’t charge for this type of help, but in this case I might have to, just because I need you.” She took a card out of her pocket and handed it to him. “This is my actual contact, in England, should you take long to give me an answer. I’d like to recruit you to my recent operation.”

“What exactly would that be, then?”

“Well, you’d be working the same job, gathering information about the Magisterium or anything political, and passing it forward. Same premise, just a different employer.” She gestured at herself. “In this case, it’s me and my agency. Oakley Street is notorious for its resistance work, and while we protect England, we also work towards lowering the Magisterium grip on most places. We’re also official, so to speak, so we have government backing, though it’s hush-hush.”

“All very tempting.” René said, taking a step closer. She wasn’t very sure if he was going to kiss her or to try and kill her, but she wasn’t very concerned. After Marcel, Dorothea was awfully used to volatile situations that went from danger to flirting very fast. “What’s Alma’s role in all this?”

“I have a special assignment for her, which I’m still considering because it’s very dangerous, and she’ll have the option to choose, trust me. She is to lead the operation, though.” She said, and nodded at the card in his hand. “Think it over, then tell me if you’d like to join.”

He stared at the card again, a little lost, she realised. He took another step closer, then, pressing her against the balustrade; Dorothea put her hands on his chest to keep him away. She smiled, though.

“Maybe we can work something else out.” He said.

“I am flattered by your attention, but I don’t have the habit of sleeping with my contacts.” She heard Astraeus’s scoff close to her ear, loud and clear, but she didn’t think René heard it.

“I haven’t agreed to be your contact just yet.”

“True, but you will. Your sister’s freedom for a year of intelligence work, that’s a good bargain, if you want my opinion.” She patted his chest, and he took a step back, to her relief.

“Can you really help her?” He asked, at last, putting the card in his pocket. Dorothea gestured at the door to him.

“Certainly. I have a lot of influence.” She said, handing him pen and paper, back on the bedroom entrance of the door; walking by Alma’s bed, she was fast asleep, Aion curled up at her feet. “And where my influence fails, there’s always money. Trust me, the best way to a Magisterium employee’s heart is through their greed.”

***

“This looks wonderful on you!” Dorothea said, brushing the skirt off on Alma, who was currently wearing a beautiful blue satin dress, in front of a tall mirror. The woman was also standing on a small stool, a little taller than Dorothea. She turned to the seamstress who was helping her with Alma’s clothes and smiled. “We’ll have this one too, I think. Do you like it?”

“Yes, I do. But you don’t have to spend so much money. I don’t think I can wear all of these!”

“Nonsense. You need a new wardrobe, and I certainly don’t mind investing in you.” She waited until Alma returned from undressing, now wearing a plain white shirt, with a red skirt. She climbed back on the stool and Dorothea helped her button up the shirt; Astraeus and the monkey were having a lively conversation at their feet. “These look good too, very prude.”

“Suitable then. You said he’s more likely to hire a modest girl.” Alma said, and Dorothea nodded, looking at her through the mirror. She was a bit antsy, and Dorothea knew why; she patted her shoulder.

“Between me and his sister, I think it’s safe to assume he won’t want anyone who remotely seems like a headache incarnate.” She laughed. “You clearly have questions, Alma. Ask away, you know you can do that.”

Alma bit her lower lip, pressing her fingers against each other, massaging her hand. Dorothea waited, patiently, for something she was already expecting.

“I can’t believe you have a lover like that.” Alma whispered, as if it was a dirty secret, which was, of course.

“Well, _lover_ is a strong word. We… we see each other, sometimes, when we’re not backstabbing each other.” She raised her eyebrows, surprised at her own definition of the thing.

“He sounds rather… stoic.”

“You mean _boring_ , I know.” She retorted and Alma chuckled, quietly. She seemed happier that morning, or at the very least, less stoic herself. Something had shifted within her, perhaps the fact she didn’t feel the dubious guilt anymore, but at the same time the lingering sadness remained. “Well, he is. In some ways, it’s how he likes to behave towards other people, but he has his charms, I suppose. Or maybe my taste in men is just that bad, I can’t say. He is not to be trifled with, however.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Alma,” Dorothea walked in front of her, adjusting her skirt here and there, then facing the woman. “if you think this is too dangerous for you, I won’t be mad if you decide not to take this assignment. He is dangerous, very dangerous, and you’re the only person, except for Thomas Nugent, who knows about Marcel and me. That is because I need you to know who you’re working for, I can’t have you finding out about this in the middle of the assignment, and I need you to trust me when I say he is dangerous. If he finds out you’re a spy, for me of all people, he’s gonna destroy you in horrible ways.”

“I understand.”

Dorothea nodded, and stopped talking once the seamstress came back, fixed some spots in the skirt and went back to her room again.

“He’s fair, as far as my research goes. His former secretaries were very clear on that, but he is demanding. Likes efficiency, he’s very detail-oriented, and he is prone to have a flimsy mood. You’ll need to be sharp and clever, not too clever to get his attention though. Try not to be at the center of anything remotely scandalous, and I think you should be fine. He hates attention from the wrong type of people, journalists specially.”

“What if…” Alma stopped, but Dorothea let her think over what she was going to say, waiting patiently. “What if he tries… tries something?”

Dorothea chuckled, far too amused by the idea than she should’ve been. Astraeus gave her a reprimanding gaze.

“You mean, if he makes a move on you? Well, I don’t know, I find that unlikely.”

“Do you think I’m not his type?”

“I don’t think he has a type. But I also don’t think he has enough sex drive to have a dalliance with a secretary.” She adjusted Alma’s sleeves. Alma seemed a bit confused. “I don’t think Marcel is very interested in that sort of thing.”

“But you and him--”

“Oh, right. Well, it took me a while to notice, but I think he does it for me, mostly. I think he thinks if I am pleased, I am more inclined to do things for him.” Dorothea shuddered, and Alma chuckled, incredulous. “That is outrageous, of course, and very much true. Clever bastard always asks me for something afterwards. Well, I am merely human, nothing I can do about that.”

“But, if he does something, and you feel like you can handle that sort of relationship with him, I say go for it. You don’t have to do it if you don’t feel comfortable about it though, and like I said, I hardly think he would make a move. It doesn’t sound like him at all.” Dorothea crossed her arms over her chest, seeing her reflection in the mirror at the corner of her eyes, as she turned to face Alma. “I don’t think he would do anything that could culminate in a scandal, truth be told.”

“Do you like him?”

The nonchalant tone of the question almost eluded Dorothea, for a moment. She stopped and looked at Alma, with a blank expression and a lazy smile. She knew what Alma meant, of course; she just didn’t want to acknowledge the question because then she would have to answer it.

“Does it matter?” She asked jokingly, but Alma didn’t buy it. It felt like she could see right through her uneasiness, making it more uneasy to just be there.

“It matters if I ever have to shoot him.” Alma whispered, and Dorothea chuckled. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for breaking your heart or anything like that.”

“Alma, if he ever tries to harm you in any way, you’re supposed to try and defend yourself by any means.” She brushed her skirt and nodded, approvingly at Alma’s outfit. She knew that Alma meant something else; she wanted to know if she could trust Dorothea not to throw everything to the wolves for the sake of a dalliance. “How I feel about him does not outweigh your safety. It is utterly irrelevant, in fact.”

“But you feel something then?” Alma said, witty and Dorothea couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t say anything because the seamstress came back, adjusted a few more things and then released Alma into wearing her older dress again.

She came back, adjusting the skirt and stopped before Dorothea who examined her carefully, and sighed, at last.

“Yes, yes. I feel lots of things, most of the time it’s just sheer anger because he is an asshole.” They paid for the clothes and hailed a cab; Dorothea lit another cigarette while the driver put everything on the back of the car. “Which is why I must repeat myself: he is a dangerous man, Alma, and not the fun type of dangerous. The bad type of dangerous.”

“I didn’t know there were different types of dangerous.” Alma mocked her, and Dorothea shook her head with a grin. “I wonder what _fun_ dangerous mean.”

“Don’t be funny. It’s not funny.”

They didn’t speak again until they were safely back at their hotel room. Alma sat at the balcony again, occupying the same chair René had used the day before, watching the sky, clear and colourful. Dorothea was finishing her letters of recommendation for Alma, piling them with three more letters from acquaintances she had in France. These would be enough to give Alma a solid background as a secretary, so Marcel wouldn’t be too suspicious.

They decided to change her surname only, to Bertrand instead of Falk, and much of Alma’s lost identity was recovered, though it was more like a mended fabric. They changed Louise’s old files to Alma’s current identity, and because those student files were under René’s keep, if Marcel or anyone tried to check, there wouldn’t be much doubts over its legitimacy, because René was essentially the only person in contact with these files. It was hard to ask Alma to hinder her intellect, as they decided to lower some of her grades and remove certain honors as that would have been overkill for a secretary, but Dorothea saw no other way to make sure there wouldn’t be doubts about her.

She had spent the previous evening, after René left, making dozens of phone calls. First to Godwin, who seemed to be in a bad shape; despite her reassurances that everything was fine, Dorothea did not believe her one bit. She did knew about the Belrose situation, though she didn’t really know anything about the Sigil, but that had been expected; they weren’t exactly known outside certain social circles.

Much of what Godwin knew backed René’s story, although the personal parts he mentioned couldn’t really be proved. She even handed the phone to Alma, so they could talk, and it was a long hour of tears and sobs and angry muttering, and apologies that Dorothea watched with a lot of pity. There was no way in the world that she could begin to understand how Alma was feeling, but she expected that the closure she was having, albeit forced and painful, would be enough to help her heal.

“She needs to heal. I have concerns about her mental state.” She had whispered to Astraeus, both sitting on the couch; Alma looked at her then, phone to her ear, wet cheeks and eyes, and smiled, a little lost. She smiled back.

“Do you think she could try to kill herself?” Astraeus whispered back. She didn’t say anything, but he felt her concerns quite clearly, and that was enough of an answer. There was no way of knowing, and thus uncertainty was something to be afraid of.

Despite the resistance, Alma took Godwin’s word better than she did René’s, which was a start. While Dorothea called her other contacts, the woman had sat on the couch, quietly speaking to her daemon, who was far calmer than she was. Dorothea and Astraeus worked it out through the evening, making phone calls, arrangements, calling embassies here and there; at some point she called Bud to ask for a favour, and despite his sleepiness, he helped her out. By three in the morning, she had already arranged for Anya to take a zeppelin in Muscovy, and in the morning she warned René through a note at his address that his sister should arrived by nightfall that day. She didn’t ask for his decision, she really didn’t have to, after all.

“I’ve placed your recommendation letter in your suitcase. Your last employer was a dentist here in Paris who recently passed away. The office has been closed for three months, so it’s a safe decoy.” Dorothea said, standing by the door to the balcony. Alma nodded, slowly.

“What if he doesn’t hire me?”

“Well, that’s a possibility.” Dorothea sighed, crossing her arms against her chest. “I’m counting on all your cunning and charisma to sell a good impression on him. Clean, perfectionist, organised, it’s what he will be looking for. Discrete. Worst comes to worst, and he decides to choose someone else, I’ll find a different place for you. There are plenty of offices in Geneva, after all.”

“You said he was important, though. Won’t that harm our operation?” Alma’s doubts were beginning to show more openly now; Dorothea put a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, he’s quite valuable. Well-connected, though _La Maison Juste_ is not really a powerful group; he has been making some bold moves recently, acquiring some influence, but very slowly. When someone wants power in the Magisterium, they need to be careful not to draw attention from their more powerful rivals.” Dorothea blew the air out of her lungs. She was in fact wary of Marcel’s plans, though she couldn’t begin to conceive them. “As his secretary, you could meet everyone that is someone in the Magisterium, and not raise any suspicion, because _La Maison Juste_ is the last place anyone would think of to place a spy, or to look for a spy.”

“More the reason why I should be hired, then.”

“Yes, though if he doesn’t hire you, this won’t be a failed plan, just a more difficult one. Truth be told, Alma, this plan of mine scares me; Marcel is… difficult.” She checked her watch and sighed. “We should go have something to eat, then make our way for the zeppelin landing zone. René said he would meets us there by seven.”

Alma didn’t move at first, stuck on her thoughts, so Dorothea offered the woman her hand, and they went for a late lunch.

***

René was already at the landing zone when they arrived, waiting by the fence alongside other people, drivers and relatives, all waiting for the new arrivals. It was colder now, and Alma was wearing her new coat while she walked with Dorothea. They saw each other across a couple of people, and René nodded swiftly, but they didn’t approach; it was better not to be seen together.

“I think he is interested in you.” Alma said, casually, as they watched the zeppelins arrive and depart across the fence. She smoked a very fragrant cigarillo that helped keep her warm under the twilight ambience, just a little bit of orange colours in the horizon as the sun left them.

“Yeah, he mentioned it.” Dorothea chuckled, their arms intertwined. “Not that I don’t find him interesting, but I turned him down. It’s not wise to mess around with contacts.”

“Except for Delamare.” Alma mumbled, jokingly. Dorothea laughed against her own will. She took a drag of Alma’s cigarillo and blew the smoke away.

“You and Astraeus should make a club, he also doesn’t let me forget that.”

They finally saw the zeppelin they were waiting for, a private company one, whose number was hard to read from a distance and in the night light. René saw it though, and he adjusted his hat and his coat, and quietly made his way to the gate, to make sure his sister would see him. He seemed anxious, his hare daemon hopping after him, shifting his cigarette every two minutes.

“How did you pull this off?” Alma asked her, and Dorothea came back to her senses. She leaned against the fence, lit a cigarette, watching René and a bunch of other people gather by the exit gate.

“Ah, simple phone calls here and there. When I was younger I befriended the sister of the current governor of Moscow, so that was helpful.” She examined the people coming out of the zeppelin that had arrived, suitcases being returned or already in hand. “There was a friend of Oakley Street in Moscow, so I made sure she was escorted properly. Forged a few papers. Simple work, really.”

“What if you just facilitated a spy’s entrance into the country?” Alma whispered, worried.

“I thought about it. A lot. That would be poor luck, and right now René and his sister are laughing at me for being a goody-shoes fool.” She took her time smoking her cigarette this time, choosing the right words. Marcel had called her an idealist as if it was a despicable thing, and since then she had found a hard time accepting it. Everything in her life he came in contact, he ruined for her and it was a miracle he hadn’t ruined her at all. Not yet, anyway. “But, I’d rather take my chances then leave a poor woman in a situation like the one she was in. Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts and hope they are right. Lucky for me, I usually am.”

“You make it sound so easy and simple.” Alma remarked, impressed.

A crowd began to cross the gates, hats and more hats moving about, faces barely distinguishable. She had no idea how René saw Anya, but he had, pulling his sister from the crowd and they held each other. She was taller than him, incredibly thin and dark-haired, hunger and fatigue decorating her blank features. He cupped her face with a gentleness Dorothea was quite unfamiliar with, and in Alma she found an understanding that comforted her. She was usually alone in her random thoughts like that.

“Sometimes it’s worth to take a risk in the name of something good.” Dorothea mumbled.

“Are you sure we can trust him?” Alma asked, as René held his sister tight; none of them spoke, embraced, her shabby clothes moving with the wind. Dorothea threw her cigarette away.

“Sure? No. I haven’t been sure of anything since… well, since a scandal eleven years ago.” She smiled at Alma. “And I certainly don’t trust him, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t work together. A man of his skills is a rare find, we won’t get as lucky as this ever again. Muscovite spies have an incredible amount of training, as far as I’m concerned, they are specialists at everything.”

“Well, if you think we’ll be fine working with him, I’ll abide by your judgement.” Alma said, crossing her arms. “Will he report to you directly?”

“No, he will report to you.” She saw Alma’s puzzled expression and let out a sigh; Astraeus whispered she might have forgotten something and she had. “I think I didn’t tell you: the information cell, you’ll be leading them.”

“Oh. I see.” She sounded more surprised than Dorothea expected, perhaps even a little doubtful, though the time for that had long passed. “I’ll do my best to serve you well.”

“Serve me? I don’t think you understand, Alma. This is your cell now, you’ll command it as you see fit. I’ll be your liaison with Oakley Street, and most of your activities will be tied to my name in case something bad happens, but at the end of the day, you’ll lead René and anyone else you might want to recruit. It’s yours, it’s all yours.”

“So this is why you’re placing me in Geneva!” Alma exclaimed, and Dorothea nodded when René looked at her from his place. If there was ever someone who embodied gratitude, that someone was him.

He took his sister’s suitcase, a small one, and they walked away. She had no doubts she would see him soon.

“Yes, and no. Geneva is a good spot for a spy, it’s in the middle of the continent and the middle of the Magisterium, so to speak.” They began to walk, arm in arm, back to their hotel, following a sidewalk lit softly by warm lamplights. The cold was becoming ruthless again, so they pressed against each other as they walked. “But the reason why I’m placing you there it’s because I do not trust Marcel, and I need to know what he is up to. Sadly, the director doesn’t think he matters; I wholeheartedly disagree. Marcel is far too intelligent to be left alone, unsupervised. He is up to no good, though God only knows when that no-good will come.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little risky placing me there, though?”

“Yes, it is. Geneva is a difficult place to operate with an intelligence network, but it also makes it easier for European countries to communicate and messages to flow easily everywhere. It’s ideal, and I’ve taken precautions that you won’t be drifting in case you get caught. I’ll protect, we - Oakley Street - we’ll protect you as best as we can, and you will be a spy hiding in plain sight.” Dorothea felt heavy, but she ignored that sensation. “It’s as safe as it can be, but this is still dangerous work.”

She smiled, very pleased with herself and her plan and her wicked wit about the whole thing. It was a clean plan of action, solid and determined. She couldn’t have asked for anything better.

 _An obvious spy. Marcel’s favourite_ , she thought amused and fearful.


	16. a dangerous proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the sea quote and the Delamares are meant to be a silly thing. I know, I know, my sense of humour sucks lmao  
> Disclaimer: Canonically there are six alethiometers, HOWEVER, Philman did something weird that in TAS a seventh Alethiometer seems to be with Asriel in the tower, but I'm not sure what exactly is going on. I had to try and create a logistic for the Alethiometers because they are in differently places in LBS, HDM and TSC, but it's not fully disclosed here yet, just partially. The Geneva Alethiometer mentioned in LBS I've placed as being held by the Society, while the CCD confiscated its own.
> 
> Thank you for you feedback, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I think it's very fun and full of dialogue! And in case you are a bit lost with the Book parallels, this is suppose to happen Mid-Northern Lights.

_when anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea,  
and the sea drowns them out with its great wide sounds,  
cleanses me with its noise, and imposes a rhythm upon everything in me  
that is bewildered and confused  
_ **rainer maria rilke**

**_Spring, 1997_ **

Marisa tried her best not to sigh when Boreal got inside the car. They sat across each other, but even with the spacious ambient, Boreal managed to brush his legs against hers. It was deliberate, of course, and she knew that, but she was not in the mood to reciprocate.

“So?” She asked when the car began to move. It took some effort to actually pronounce the words in a way that wasn’t utterly vicious, but as usual, Marisa managed just fine. The fur of her monkey also brushed against her leg, that was far more unpleasant than anything Boreal did.

“Still nothing.” Boreal was frustrated and it showed all over his body. Not because the subject of Lyra interested him at all, but because Marisa was dragging him along her own lunacy over the girl.

The spyflies had hardly been any help, and that had been her last resort in tracking Lyra down. The CCD forces meant to help her were now being assigned elsewhere, as the political scenery of Eastern Europe was becoming more volatile as the time went by. The CCD was making an extra effort in hiding the business with Asriel, making everything as secret as possible, but Asriel had left an impression of excitement and, especially, of fear, as his little speech at Jordan had already reached most academic institutions.

They had summoned her, Father MacPhail in the name of the Cardinal of the CCD. Offended by the way they treated her, Marisa kept him waiting for three days, before Boreal came knocking on her door, pleading that she would go and speak to them. After much discussion, she had agreed, though rather displeased. So much work and dedication, yet they still behaved like she was a second class citizen, who had no place in the Church.

“This isn’t good.” Marisa told Boreal, looking out the window, watching the city pass by. It was an agreeable morning, with just enough sun to taunt people’s senses. “One of the spyflies must still be out there. Perhaps it will show up soon.”

“It’s possible it simply malfunctioned.” Boreal tried to use an agreeable tone, that instead of reassuring Marisa, simply irritated her more. He treated her like she was made of glass and that was utterly insulting. “And if the girl was really ready to set into the open sea, it’ll be much harder to track her down.”

“How hard can it be to find an eleven year old?” Marisa scoffed, frowning. She tapped her nails against the glass and heard a loud sigh.

“Perhaps if you had been more careful, you wouldn’t have lost her.”

Marisa side-eyed him, her lips crisped in an unpleasant shape. Her monkey growled, but Boreal didn’t feel intimidated this time. It was getting clearer that his patience with her whims was running thinner.

“I didn’t lose her. She was taken while I was attending a party, as you well know.”

“Yes, yes. Well, we are stuck.” Boreal mumbled, unhappy. “What about Lady Eilhart? Perhaps we should question her again, a little more forcefully this time.”

“No.” Her tone was decisive and emotionless, and that alone sparked his curiosity. Marisa shook her head. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. She left for Geneva today, apparently to visit her godfather and his daughter.” Boreal said, a hint of mockery in his voice.

Marisa kept her expression impassive, but she was amused. _More likely she’s there to visit Marcel_ , she thought. That was one relationship she could not understand, not that she tried hard to do so, but the idea that Marcel had managed to snatch such a moralist was quite amusing.

“If Dorothea knew about the girl, we would already have heard something about it; she would have to find a place for Lyra to hide, and she can’t really do anything in England without attracting people’s attention.” Marisa sighed, returning to her sightseeing through the window. “She also has powerful friends, poking that hornet’s nest is a tricky move, don’t you think?”

“You think your brother is that attached to her? Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

“He usually is attached to anything he owns, yes, but I meant her more local friends.” Marisa raised her eyebrows, aloof. “Now, forget about Dorothea. What about MacPhail? Why is he summoning me?”

“He didn’t say.” Boreal said, and she felt his unease. “But I get the impression it has to do with Lord Asriel."

Marisa felt cold, but whatever she was feeling, she didn't let it show anywhere. Her monkey worked with her, harmoniously, and they both hid well everything they were feeling. It started with anger and it ended with dread, but not a sign of any of it showed in them.

The car stopped by the building that housed the Ministry of Theology, a place where most Magisterium envoys made their meetings and arrangements. Boreal moved as if he meant to get out of the car, but Marisa told him to stay, quite sweet, yet very commanding.

“I can handle MacPhail just fine, Carlo.” She said, and made her way up the stairs into an austere building, filled with offices, that in return were filled with people working at their desks, filing papers, making phone calls. Here and there, she passed by a bishop, a priest, an envoy from the Court of Common Order, a nun who came to request financial aid; this was the place to find anyone with the bare minimum of influence in the Church.

MacPhail was waiting for her in a small room on the upper floor. There was a large table, meant for twelve people, right in the middle of the room, and he sat by the end, next to a window that let the sunlight illuminate the frugal grey office. Marisa sat across him, quietly and slowly, while he stared at her with a sulking attitude, as if he hated the fact he had to come all this way to deal with _her,_ of all people.

“You requested my presence.” She said, spreading her hands on the table. Her sarcastic tone did not help enhance his already foul mood. MacPhail was too disciplined and righteous to scream at her, but he wanted to, that much she knew.

“Three days ago.” He snapped, quietly. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I've been busy.”

“It's bad enough you lost the girl, now you behave like you don't own anyone any satisfaction, but that is not true, is it?” He tapped his finger on the table; the strong scent of new furniture was giving Marisa a headache. “Your little branch of the Church--”

“The GOB, which has kept me busy--” Marisa began but MacPhail interrupted her, raising his hand solemnly.

“Yes, I am familiar with it. The GOB answers to the CCD.”

“Only partially.”

“Partially is already more than nothing, and yet you seem to be forgetting that.” MacPhail leaned against his chair, a frown in his face. Marisa straightened herself in her chair, her monkey on the table, watching the priest with distaste. “The Cardinal is absolutely displeased with your work and behaviour.”

“My work is flawless.”

“That's debatable. When you're not getting in the way of the CCD by taking the girl and then losing her, you are openly defying our orders. Yes, _orders_ , not requests. You've avoided me for _three days._ ”

“Like I said, I was busy.” She narrowed her eyes, slightly, just enough to taunt him. Her monkey moved slightly next to her, trying not to give anything away.

“Do you think I enjoy baby-sitting you?” He spat. “I have to come here and deal with your carelessness, your sloppiness, while you continue to not take this seriously.”

“I am taking this seriously, I've been looking for the girl. I _did not_ lose her.”

“The only people who could have taken her are _your_ people!”

“Nonsense! Even if they had taken her, I would have known and been informed.” Marisa shook her head. “Besides, Asriel has friends everywhere, if he learned I had her with me, he could have had her taken from my place.”

“Yes, so that brings us to the matter at hand.” He pushed a file to her, briskly. “Asriel. He continues to cause trouble. Right now the bears seem to have given him a comfortable cell in the territory of Svalbard.”

Marisa pressed her lips while reading the file. It didn't look good for her, and she didn't even know where and when the whole went haywire. Arranging for Asriel’s imprisonment by the bears had been a long and arduous task that, Marisa thought, she had crafted to perfection. She couldn’t be appropriately tied to it, and the bear laws were adamant, meaning Asriel was legally being held for whatever misdemeanor Iofur Raknison came up with. She didn’t care, frankly, she had expected not to hear from Asriel ever again. _So much for good luck,_ she thought.

“That alone is bad enough, except he somehow managed to smuggle lots of things he needed for his laboratory. A laboratory. His prison cell is now a laboratory.” MacPhail said, slowly, letting the words sink in. His eyes were slightly bloodshot now; Marisa thought his head could explode at any moment, though his calm tone never changed. “You can see why I am upset about this.”

He was right, that was an incredible bad turn of events, but Marisa chose not to give in and admit defeat. In doing so, she would have doomed her career then and there; they were just waiting for her surrender. All that was needed was a single mistake, and while she could mask the issue with Lyra, or the fact the GOB was yielding poor results with incredible death rates, or that the death of the Commissioner had open doors to investigations to continue, she couldn’t hide the fact that she didn’t have Asriel under control.

“You promised you could restrain Asriel!” MacPhail put his finger on the table, leaning forward to address her.

“I cannot oversee everything the moronic king of the bears does, MacPhail. If Asriel got the best of him, it's not on me.” Marisa smiled, bitterly. “What I can do it's stop his suppliers at the source.”

“That won't do. He will just find new suppliers. He's liked and well-known and right now he has maintained a degree of silence that has been helpful to us, but that won't last, especially when he gets desperate.” Marisa didn't like his tone. It had an urgency underlying his boring speech pattern that unsettled her. Her daemon felt it too and he reached for her wrist, bracing for the unknown. She wanted to move away from him, but she couldn’t, not in front of MacPhail. _Not in front of anyone, ever._ “The last thing we need is Asriel dragging people's attention to his arrest, or worse, to his work.”

“You give him too much credit--” Marisa began, but MacPhail simply shook his head in disapproval, interrupting her.

“You don't take him seriously enough. Ironic, don't you think? You threw away your marriage to a decent man for him once, yet now you don’t acknowledge him for all of his talents, unscrupulous as they are.” He arched his eyebrows, waiting for a reaction. She didn't move, except for pressing her lips delicately, despite her urge to bite the inside of her mouth and scowl. She wouldn't give him that. “I wonder what else you would have done, had you not been caught? I don't believe you feel sorry, Mrs. Coulter, but to your work, our forgiveness is quite irrelevant.”

“If you're questioning my loyalty--” She began, but he interrupted her again. She hated it more than anything.

“I'm not, but the Cardinal is. He thinks you let the girl get away, or perhaps that you didn't give enough attention to the matter at hand. So, he wants you to oversee Asriel's likely execution.”

Marisa couldn’t help but stop mid-sentence, frowning confused. MacPhail waited for her reaction, patiently, as if he himself had trouble assimilating it. She knew they were desperate to put a stop to Asriel’s work, anyone sensible would have had the same reaction, but to the extent of sentencing him to death? She shuddered, and if MacPhail noticed, he paid no mind to it.

“The Church hasn't executed anyone for hundreds of years, especially not a Brytish citizen.” It was all she managed to say without her voice faltering.

“Yet, if you cannot convince Lord Asriel to stop his research, he might be the first execution for heresy in a long time.” MacPhail sighed. He rubbed his temples, and Marisa watched, stiffly seated at her chair, wanting nothing but to leave that office. She wanted to run, to scream, to scratch Asriel’s face off. Even now, everything he did was to wreck her life in many different ways. “I don't know him very well, but I feel he might actually enjoy this sort of attention.”

“He is not backing down, not for me, not for anyone else.”

“Then he will die. It's as simple as that.” MacPhail said. The way he looked at her made her feel like he was measuring her worth, her loyalty, her sense of dignity. “The Cardinal wants you to make sure that his sentence will be carried. We are prepared to deal with the political backlash, regardless. He stops, or he dies.”

Marisa tilted her head, feeling tense, but she smiled agreeably. Not too ostentatiously, because even MacPhail wouldn't believe that she was delighted in knowing Asriel would die. He was a zealot, but not a stupid zealot. She cleared her throat and recovered her composure, like her mother had taught her. _Mother,_ she scoffed inwardly, as if her mother was the one she ran to whenever she needed help. 

Marisa’s ruthlessness was an admirable trait, but one that didn’t come with reasoning or patience, so she often ended up in trouble. Through the years, she had collected a variety of people she could use for assistance: Boreal and his shameless agenda and his foolish attraction; Dorothea and her reluctance which was often bested by her lack of backbone and naivetè. Marcel was her long-standing assistant, always forced to help her; all she needed to do was annoy him enough and he would crack under her pressure, he always did, sharp mind, not a very strong will. Now, though, she wasn’t sure he could help her either, the CCD being vastly stronger than anything Marcel had any control over.

Even Asriel had assisted her, many times, even when Lyra had been born and he could have just walked away. He never did walk away, though, never wanted to. Like her, he thought the world was his for the taking, but unlike her, he had been blessed with privileges and being a man was amongst them.

 _Manhood won’t save you now_ , Marisa had thought once, at his trial, and the same thought occurred to her now, seated across MacPhail, being asked - no, _commanded_ , she corrected herself - to ensure he either stopped his life’s work or that he would be stopped. As inherently male as the Magisterium was, to them faith and truth and order overruled everything else. _What is truth if not complacency?_ Marisa pondered, feeling MacPhail’s gaze as he waited for her answer. All the times truth was used in her life, it had warranted nothing but disgrace and misery. The world was better off with liars.

“Very well. I'll be on my way to Svalbard soon.” She finally said. MacPhail tilted his head, quite surprised, she realised. His lizard daemon moved slightly on his shoulder, but Marisa’s monkey was firmly in her arms as she stood up. She used her free hand to push the file back to him. He picked up, astonished.

“That's rather agreeable of you. He is the father of your child.”

“So he is.”

“And you would let him be executed? Just like that?” MacPhail asked, baffled, doubtful. He didn’t believe her. Unlike the Cardinal, who danced around her with sweet words and polite manners, only to slander her from behind her back to others, MacPhail was straightforward. He was part of the Magisterium because he believed in it, his faith was adamant and his driving force, and he didn’t buy any of Marisa’s rehearsed lies. He often spoke his mind as well, a fresh battleground, it kept her on her toes. She rather liked that.

“There is no future with Asriel. He would doom us all, and I’d rather not be caught up in his demise, not again, anyway.” She said, and part of it was true. Asriel had already consumed a great deal of her life, and if he went on with his madness, she would rather avoid feeling the backlash from the Church.

MacPhail didn’t believe her, she knew, at least not entirely. But he had done his part, which was to carry on the message to her, so he was more than satisfied. He stood up and offered her his hand; she shook it.

“Use one of the official zeppelins, the ones with a small guard. Try to talk him out of it, first, though. If a life can be saved, it’s best we try to save before resorting to execution.” He said, and walked her to the door. She nodded, and prepared to walk down the corridor when he called her name.

“Yes, father?” She tried not to sound too displeased. He didn’t seem to care.

“If you think, for a moment, that you cannot make the call for his execution, if you falter, if you doubt… Have someone else do it. It is of the utmost importance that we stop Asriel, one way or the other. There is no room for failure.” MacPhail said, while Marisa held her chin high. He was measuring his words, she noticed, an unlikely attitude from him. “We are all human, and we all have our weaknesses, you of all people understand that. You’ve been weak before concerning Asriel, and I understand it, but the Church has priority now. Should you hesitate, God will certainly forgive you, such is His nature, but the Magisterium may not. Good afternoon.”

***

Dorothea paced outside the building, Astraeus flying around her, but every time he tried to land on her shoulder, she changed the direction of her march abruptly. It was cold, so she braced herself in her coat, her breath turning white in front of her eyes. She cursed in every language she knew, every swear word she knew, biting the inside of her mouth.

“Where the fuck is he?” She mumbled, and Astraeus settled for perching on her head, trying to get warm in her hair. “I can’t believe him!”

“I can’t believe _you_!” Astraeus pecked at her head, and she tried to wave him away, but he evaded her successfully. It was all very childish. “He snaps his fingers, and here you are! Have you no sense of pride?”

She didn’t answer him, at least not with anything more than a growl. Across the street, no one was coming, so she leaned against a lamppost, taking deep breaths, rubbing her arms to keep herself warm. Astraeus was right; what the hell was she doing there?

Marcel’s note had come early in the morning that day, and it said nothing but _I need you, meet me at 9pm._ She had considered ignoring him, except his choice of words intrigued her; it was too open, too direct, too outside his usual suave and subtle nature. It unnerved her, and thus she had no choice but to go and see him. There was also, of course, no way to deny Marcel; if anything the man was persistent. She had been in Geneva for two days already, and she had expected for him to reach out; what she hadn’t expected was to be left standing in the cold outside his building, alone, as her wrist watch marked half past eleven.

The porter had told her Delamare had left around seven, and she didn’t press him for more answers; she didn’t want to attract attention. She had waited inside for the first hour, but as she grew increasingly fidgety and her humour just got worse, she went outside to have a smoke and there she stayed, wanting to leave but not quite moving.

Astraeus was right; she was a marchioness with no sense of pride.

“Well, this time he’s done it!” She scowled, at last, and checking her watch again, she breathed out. “I swear to God, if I see him--”

She didn't finish her sentence, because a car came from down the street and stopped near her. It was a cab, she noticed, and she didn't have to see who was inside to know who it was. Her whole body seemed to heat up from her anger, but she bit her mouth and kept her face blank from any expression that wasn't a frown. She waited for Marcel to pay for the cab; when he opened the door his scent was suddenly everywhere, familiar and foreign at the same time, skin, perfume, cigars, and alcohol.

His outfit was meant for fancy dinners, she noticed, when he stood before her in the dim light of the sidewalk, his hands on his pockets, his daemon on his shoulder, casual and careless and warm. That only made Dorothea angrier.

“You're here. Good.” He said, a little awkwardly after she didn't say anything, arms crossed over her chest, an expression on her face that would have made ordinary men flinch. Not him though, to her dismay and fury; if he acknowledged her bad mood, he simply chose to ignore it.

He made his way inside the building, and she watched him go, slowly, confident, nonchalant as usual. Something tugged at the back of her head, and for a moment she thought it had been her good sense, but it was just Astraeus.

“He's waiting for us.” Her daemon whispered, eager. A few minutes before he was complaining about her lack of sense, but now that Marcel was here, Astraeus had as much backbone as she did.

Marcel had turned to look over his shoulder, and she sighed and followed him, her heels hitting the floor hard.

She had never been in his apartment before. It was on a high floor, with a pretty view of lights and buildings across Geneva. It was clean, lightly coloured in cream, light blues and greens, silky curtains, a floral wallpaper that decorated his bedroom in where she took a peek quickly, before returning to his living room.

He didn't seem to mind that she was walking around his place, instead he poured himself a dark drink, and leaned against his armchair, his fingers running through his collar, undoing his bowtie. She observed him, quietly, standing before him at a safe enough distance, her arms crossed over her chest. Astraeus had already flown to the table where Marcel placed his bowtie, and his daemon flew to him so they could talk.

Dorothea almost sighed; so much for trying to assert some control over the situation. She was still mad, though.

“Am I supposed to be affected by your frown?” Marcel said, unimpressed, taking a sip from his drink. Spread in his chair, he looked relaxed and exhausted, running his fingers through his hair.

“Where the fuck have you been?” She managed to say, trying hard not to to yell. His apartment was fairly warm, so she took off her coat and dropped on his couch. Her feet still hurt from the cold, though. “I've been waiting for you, out in the cold, for two hours.”

“I had to attend a dinner party.”

“Two hours, you bastard!” She scowled, bracing herself tighter. She expected Astraeus to argue with the owl, but he was cheerfully nudging his head against her. “You left me waiting in the cold! I am not at your disposal, Marcel. You can’t just call me on a whim and then leave me waiting for you!”

Marcel raised an eyebrow, unaffected, and he knew that was gonna make her even angrier. His glass met the table with a soft noise, and he rested his hands on his knees, watching carefully as she fidgeted in place. Anxious and irritated, yes, but also trying to warm her legs. She was uncomfortable and she wished she had worn a long skirt. _I wish I had stayed at my hotel room,_ she thought bitterly.

“Dinner was supposed to end at nine, but they got carried away and I just couldn't leave.” He said, in a determined tone, trying to end that argument before it even started.

Dorothea scoffed and turned on her heels, taking a few steps away from him. He didn't say anything, even when she turned back to her place, her arms still crossed.

“Usually this is when someone says _I'm sorry_.” She scowled.

“I _am_ sorry.” His condescending tone wasn’t exactly helping his case.

“You're not. And that's what irritates me the most.” She crisped her lips, pondering. She wanted to leave, to keep him on his edge by walking away, but she was too curious to do that. “You said you needed me. Well, I'm here. Start talking.”

“Sit.” He said, gesturing at the couch across him. She raised her chin; Marcel tilted his head, a grin on his lips. He knew he was gonna win whatever contest this was, it was but a question of how long she was willing to resist. “Sit and I'll tell you. I need your full attention.”

“You have it. Talk and talk fast before I change my mind.”

“No. You're uncomfortable and cold, rubbing your ankles against each other, I sense your tension from here.” He said, and there was finally some irritation in his voice. “Dorothea, just sit. This might take some time.”

She didn't move, and they looked at each other for what seemed like a long time. The silence was unnerving and their daemons watched warily. Marcel smiled, suddenly; there was a bit of sweat on his forehead.

“I can do this all night, while you just spent the last hour standing in the cold.” He added, matter-of-factly.

“I can last all night too.”

“No, you can't. Just sit.”

She finally caved in, defeated by the warmth in the apartment. His pleased attitude was worse than anything else.

“Drop the attitude.” She growled, stiffly seated. “Start talking."

“There has been a robbery.” He began, but she immediately interrupted him. Suddenly, there was a frown on his forehead that was rather unbecoming of him.

“Inform the police.”

“It's an Alethiometer.” He tried again, and once again she interrupted him. Dorothea watched his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth as he was trying to steady his anger.

“Again, inform the police.” She snapped. Astraeus, seated closer to Marcel than her, ruffled his feathers and the owl cooed softly. The dynamic unnerved her; she wished Astraeus was with her, against her, because right now she needed him.

“Let. Me. Finish.” Marcel hissed between his teeth and she shuddered. He finally breathed out, as if he had been holding his breath for a long time. His hand brushed his hair from his forehead and Dorothea didn’t know what to expect. Everything about him felt off. “A week ago, I found out someone broke into _La Maison Juste_. Nothing else of value was taken, apart from a few files and the Alethiometer. To be fair, if not for my secretary, who noticed the window open, it would have taken me a lot longer to realise what happened.”

Dorothea didn't react to the mention of the secretary. He had meant Alma, of course, who had left Paris roughly two months ago, and beautifully worked her way into Marcel's office and good graces. It took her some time to realise he was still talking.

“-- no trace of anyone. And with the Alethiometer gone, I am put in a very difficult position. I need it back.”

“Well, tell the p--” She began again, snippy, but he shook his head. Dorothea knew she was being petty, but she just couldn’t control it. 

“Stop. I can’t do that and you know it.”

“Is the Alethiometer not yours, legally, I mean?”

“It is, but involving the police will cause a commotion I cannot afford to have right now.” He straightened himself on the chair, intertwining his fingers, his hand on his lap. He looked at her oddly, in a manner she couldn’t read well. Almost pleading, maybe, though she didn’t believe her understood the concept of that word.

“Well, I didn’t do it, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

“Please, don’t be stupid.” Marcel hissed, taking a deep breath. “I know it wasn’t you, you weren’t even here. It’s why I asked you to come, after all.”

Her mouth twitched slightly, in a sour grin. She was finally seeing a pattern here.

“You think one of your own people did it, don’t you?” She watched with a bitter delight when he bit his own tongue, his jaw now tense, probably pondering if he had made the right choice by telling her about that. Probably not, they were both thinking.

“Yes.” He said, after a while, barely audible.

She burst into laughter, then wiped away a tear from her eye, and Marcel frowned, a little frustrated and misplaced.

“Ah, this is pathetic. Why don’t you just go to whoever did it and ask for it back?” Her mockery didn’t exactly help his mood to improve, but it did hers, so it was a start. He shook his head, absolutely displeased.

“I don’t have time for your silly sense of humour. If I knew who had it, I wouldn’t need you.” He spat. “I want you to find the alethiometer for me, and bring it back.”

There was a long silence between them, while they looked at each other with blank expressions, Dorothea making a ridiculous effort to not let her thoughts show through her emotions. She had a bad feeling about this whole business, from the start it had already made her uneasy. She knew better than to disrespect her instincts, but something about the whole thing seemed to lure her towards it. A disaster waiting to happen, as those things seem to follow Dorothea everywhere.

“No.” She shook her head, at last, standing up, her coat being gripped tight in her hands. She needed something to hold onto.

“Dorothea--” He began, but she raised her finger at him.

“No. This is insane. You want to put _me_ in the middle of a power play, risking _my_ neck for something that doesn't even concern me.” It was a struggle to keep her voice down. She sensed her whole body shaking. “I will not be dragged into this.”

He had made it sound like a request, so polite, so formal, but she knew how to read the nuances of his rehearsed speech: that was a demand, whether she liked it or not, and Dorothea didn’t know if this time she could afford to ignore it

“I can give you whatever you want.” He said, in a serious expression that insulted her, though she couldn’t explain why. Perhaps it was the condescending way he looked at her, underneath that mask of formality, or perhaps she was just easily triggered that evening.

“Don’t overestimate yourself. What I want you couldn’t possibly fathom, let alone grant me.”

“I need that alethiometer back and you’re the only one that can help me with that.”

“No, I’m not, and even if I was and even if this wasn’t a trap, I wouldn’t do it. It’s suicide.” He opened his mouth to say something, but she shook her head. “No, Marcel. I’m not helping you, I have to draw the line somewhere, and tackling an internal feud it’s where I’ll do it. Good night.”

She turned to leave, but then noticed that Astraeus wasn’t following, looking at her with wide eyes, the owl by his side.

“Come.” She said to him, trying not to look Marcel in his eyes, even though that was nearly impossible, as they were close in her angle of sight. He didn’t say anything, instead following her with his eyes. Dorothea considered that maybe he didn’t think she would really leave. _Well, joke’s on you, you deviant_ , she thought bitterly, because she was really ready to leave that place and perhaps never come back.

Astraeus didn’t move, and a faint panic began to build inside her chest. He had never done anything like that before, she never thought he would dare.

“Astraeus.” Her warning tone wasn’t very confident, but he finally moved, darting for her shoulder and she made her way to the door. There was a sting inside her, that she shut it quiet, because there wasn’t a proper place to deal with it.

Silence was all around her, she felt as if she could hear her own heartbeat loud and clear, the soft thumping sounds of her heels against the polished wooden floor; Marcel’s gaze on her back, so heavy, she felt as if her lungs were being compressed. Her breathing was heavy, she reached for the doorknob, her fingers touching its cold handle.

“Dot, please.” He said, almost softly, very quietly. Dorothea felt cold.

It took her some time to realise she was standing with her hand on the doorknob, not moving. She finally let go and took a deep breath, trying to organise her thoughts.

“No one ever calls me Dot.” She mumbled, and turned to face him. His eyes were scanning her, up and down and sideways, her hands and her feet, looking for something, though she couldn’t tell what. He looked a little pale, anxious too, as if he had realised he had made a mistake. He had shown how desperate he was for her help, desperate enough to try a wildcard like that. All of that was so uncannily unlike him that Dorothea’s survival instinct kicked in right away. “That’s how my father used to call me. You have some fucking gall, you do, you--”

Her voice died halfway through her sentence, she pressed her lips, clenched her fists and just stared him down, furious. Dorothea shut her eyes tight, pressing her fingers against them, trying to think, to gather some resolve and leave. He didn’t respond, but she finally sighed and went back to her place on the couch, slowly. It was a dreadful march.

The silence in the room was unnerving. This time, Astraeus didn’t leave her side and she tried her best not to think about how he had stayed behind and hesitated to come to her. That sort of thing was meant to be unpacked in blissful loneliness. She rubbed her face and her eyes, a little tired, before addressing Marcel.

“You’re setting me up, aren’t you?” She whispered with a bitter smile. All he did was shake his head.

“Why would you think that?”

“That’s your idea of fun, isn’t it? Trapping people into deals they cannot undo.” She leaned against the couch, feeling uncomfortable. Dorothea just really wanted to leave now, but somehow she stayed. “Making fun of me for being incapable of saying no when someone asks for assistance.”

He graced her with a hearty laughter, and she realised he seemed as tired as she was, rubbing his eyes while he tried to recover his composure.

“My idea of fun is a quiet night at my apartment, preferably not in the company of a trainwreck Englishwoman yelling at me that I’m perverse.” He raised his eyebrows, and his tedious tone amused her.

“I’m certain I’ll regret this eventually, but so be it. How exactly did you lose the alethiometer?” She pressed the space between her eyes, trying to sort her thoughts.

“I’m not certain how they got in, but the open window seems like an exit route, at the very least.” He explained, calmer now, growing confident again. It was as if nothing had ever been said, at least on his part; Dorothea was certain she would overthink the whole thing for a month. “I’ve sealed the room and no one has been in there since last week.”

“Why would they want the alethiometer?”

“It’s a symbol of prestige in the Magisterium. There are six of these in the world, and three of them are within the Magisterium. The CCD, the Society of the Work of the Holy Spirit, and we have our own.” He tapped on the lamp beside him, making a soft noise. His owl tilted her head at him, puzzled. “The other three are unaccounted for, except for the English one, I believe. One went missing a decade ago or so.”

Dorothea nodded, quietly.

“Bonneville’s.” Her voice was very vague now and he raised his eyebrow. His daemon stared right at her, and she felt uncomfortable; Dorothea had a vague feeling that the owl didn’t like her.

“You know of it.” He looked surprised for once, which was a fresh feeling, all things considered. Marcel seemed awfully out of his game that evening.

“Certainly. It was rumoured he stole it, and it vanished in the Flood when he died. No one has ever found it.” Every muscle of her body worked to make sure her lie sounded smooth. Rumours about the missing alethiometer being at Jordan College were plenty, but rumours within Oakley Street were hardly just that. She believed there was some truth to it, so she was better off lying. Marcel didn’t seem to notice her effort, but even if he had, he did not acknowledge it. _It’s not what he cares about tonight,_ she thought. He had never been at her mercy before, not like that. “How come the Magisterium ended up with three alethiometers? I thought Geneva only had one.”

“A couple of months ago, the CCD took the Paris alethiometer and brought it here, though no one knows why. Most people think it’s because they requested the Geneva one, the one the Society owns, but they were denied, for whatever reason.” He brushed his thumb against his lower lip, pondering. Dorothea cleared her throat to get his attention back at her; he only moved his eyes, amused, before moving to be more comfortable on the armchair. “The point is, alethiometers are valuable and the fact mine went missing doesn’t look good for me. It was probably taken to be used to get influence with one of the big groups, likely the CCD. If they could, they would hoard all the alethiometers.”

“Why don’t you just steal one of the other three back?” Dorothea crossed her legs, looking at him with a mild expression of utter disdain.

“What part of _unaccounted for_ you didn’t listen?” He scoffed, and she clicked her tongue, displeased with his attitude. “Two of them are missing, the other one is in an English university, protected by a dozen English laws and if it goes missing, everyone will know it was us and then that would just start a mess for no good reason. No, I need my own back; it’s outrageous enough that they took it, this can’t be left alone.”

She mocked him with a smile.

“Sometimes I forget you’re just like other men.” His puzzled glance amused her even more. “You were disrespected, you want to punish them, to assert your dominance back. Boring and basic, really. Well, have it your way, I guess. Why me, Marcel? What if I wasn’t here?”

“I would have had to find someone else, but you’re here, so I don’t have to.” She raised her eyebrow unimpressed, and he knew she was suspicious of it. “You’re reliable.”

She chuckled, incredulous.

“Had you told me you wanted to see me badly, I would have believed you more than this bullshit you just spurred.” She leaned on the couch, shaking her head. “Reliable? You know me. You know who I work for. The fact you expect me to help you is already ridiculously absurd.”

“Listen: I go to the College of Bishops and make it public that I lost the damn thing, not only it will damage my reputation, everyone will be desperate to get the thing for themselves. The CCD will likely succeed in that, and then they’ll have yet another alethiometer to speed up their processes, whatever they are.” He tilted his head at her. “I know you know about that, but frankly I don't care. You’re reliable because you won’t give anyone else the alethiometer. So I trust you can do this for me, easily.”

“What if I recover your alethiometer, then flee Geneva?” She asked, trying to sound confident in her bluff.

She needed to know how desperate he was for that favour, because the whole thing stank of scheme. He didn’t smile, barely moved when he spoke.

“For how long do you think you can outrun the Swiss Army?” His was but a quiet whisper; she was beginning to think he was drunk, which was an unusual concept. She shook her head, with a smirk that felt improper for all the wrong reasons.

“You don’t have that kind of authority.”

He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth slowly twisting into a grin that was closer to a scowl than anything kind.

“Try me.” He chuckled when she frowned, faintly. His owl scolded him, but he ignored her. This wasn't rehearsed, Dorothea noticed, it was as crude as he would ever be in her presence. “You know I trust you, but just enough. I’ve thought this through. Investigate this for me and I’ll owe you a favour, our _usual_ deal.”

“I am a spy, Marcel, not a detective. You know there is a difference, right?” Her voice had a condescending tone, that this time didn't seem to affect him at all.

“You help me, and I’ll help you avoid the same fate as your heretical friend in the North.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’ll execute Asriel.” Dorothea felt a sharp cold run down her spine, but she tried to conceal her feelings by looking away. It didn’t work well. “It’s your research, though, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s not officially mine anymore.” It was his turn to look baffled, though barely.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The research was meant for navigations, but it could also be used to deal with Dust, as you seem to already know, so I had to drop the research to avoid persecution.” She said, bitterly.

“Someone must have signed that paper.”

“Yes. Someone did.” She said, and the way he looked so confused, after what she assumed was his last resort to convince her to help him, was utterly delicious. “Your sister.”

He didn’t move, and she didn’t enjoy that as much, because it was unnerving. His daemon shifted in her place, moving this way and that, hopping on his shoulder and whispering something. His Adam's apple moved when he swallowed, she could see him biting the inside of his mouth. Marcel looked like he had used cocaine and was currently suffering from withdrawal.

The whole ordeal he was enduring, with his missing Alethiometer, presented itself as a very interesting opportunity for Dorothea, but that feeling of wariness on the back of her head was demotivating. It felt too easy, and everything that was easy usually ended up badly.

“You didn’t do your research very well, did you?” She mocked, and her voice seemed to have snapped him out of his confusion, because he looked at her, almost insulted.

Dorothea walked up to him, and stopped between his legs, her calves brushing against the fabric of his trousers and the armchair. He leaned further on the chair to look at her, barely an expression on his face; his eyes were watering, he seemed close to being sick.

“I’m glad to see even men like you get desperate enough to make mistakes. You’re so desperate that you were willing to try and manipulate me by using a pet name I haven’t heard in years. I’m very amused, albeit offended; you really thought that would work, didn’t you? Lucky for you, I believe helping you with this matter might actually be in my interest.” She tapped her fingers against her thighs.

“Just tell me your price.”

“Once I retrieve the alethiometer, you will put it in a safe in a bank and you will only take it from there when you have an official reader. You must also promise that this alethiometer will never, ever be given to the CCD, under any circumstances.” She stroked his chin with her index finger. She knew that this request was easily ignored by him, if he chose to do so, but that wasn't what she wanted after all. It was mostly a decoy, to shift his attention from what she really wanted. She needed him vulnerable for that. “It’s bad enough they already have one, paired with an acceptable reader. This one must never be in their reach.”

“That can be arranged, yes.”

“That’s not all. Before I agree, you’ll tell me something I need to know. Do not lie, or I’ll know.” Her thumb brushed against his lips, and the contact made her realise what she was doing. Marcel watched her with a lazy interest and he hummed when she blushed and took her hand away. “Did the Magisterium order the mass poisoning of the big cities of Muscovy, twelve, thirteen years ago?”

He stopped, blinked once, twice, a couple of times, before answering her. His hand resting on his knee, close to her own leg, brushed against her skin. She felt the need to move, but she didn’t. When he noticed he couldn’t distract her from that line of questioning, he sighed.

“I don’t know.” It was all he said, in a definitive tone that wasn’t reassuring.

“I told you, do not lie--”

“I’m not lying.” He stretched his neck this way and that, then leaned his head back again to look at her. This time, he wasn’t very smug which made her realise he was probably genuinely not lying. “Twelve years ago, I was fairly new to the Magisterium, I couldn’t possibly tell you about that, not without asking some people about it first. This is a dangerous line of questioning, though.”

“The man who was responsible for the poison in the country was close with Auguste Binaud.” Her accusatory tone amused him, but he only allowed his eyes to show it. She noticed he seemed to know that subject was dark and grim and to allow himself to grin would have been far too morbid, even for him.

“You know Auguste. The man is a sleazy gentleman, yes, and an adulterer, but certainly not a man who condones mass murder.”

“ _You_ have no scrupulousness though.”

He shrugged.

“I was in my early twenties, and had just started my career. I didn’t have the influence to pull off something like that, and honestly, even if I had, I wouldn’t have poisoned the whole country.” The corners of his mouth curved, just barely. “I would have just attacked the main leadership. The fool who concocted that plan did not think it through at all. Muscovy is a wreck now, and the CCD struggles to keep order within its borders. They still have a health crisis, the muscovite branch of the CCD is in debt and in chaos. There’s been talk about removing them from the country, establishing a new government. I wouldn’t have been such an idiot, Dorothea, you know that.”

“You’re making a lot of claims for a man who just said, didn’t know about the whole thing at all.” She taunted him, and that made him scoff.

“People sometimes whisper about this, and like you, while I cannot prove it, I believe this was done by some idiotic branch of the Church. Just like you, I also suspect that the dumb idiots who were behind this were a part of the CCD.” Marcel sighed. “That is all I know for now, but you work on your errand, and I’ll ask around for more information.”

She watched him for a moment, wondering if she should believe him. Dorothea didn’t trust him, of course, but nothing about him right now seemed dubious, yet she felt odd about the whole thing, a bad feeling lurking at the back of her head. He brushed his leg against hers, and she snapped out of her thoughts; looking inside her purse, she took a small package of a headache medicine and put it on the little table beside his armchair. He gave it a suspicious glance.

“It’s medicine for your hangover. Mix it with water, you’ll probably need it in the morning.” She patted his cheek condescendingly, then took her coat from the couch and put it on. “You better work on your side of the deal. I’ll see you at _La Maison Juste_ , nine o’clock sharp.”

She brushed the coat and went for the door. Once again she stopped, hand on the doorknob, feeling his gaze on her back, indiscernible. She looked back at him. His smug attitude was unnerving, as if he was daring her to go on and ask what he thought she wanted to ask. _He thinks I want to stay_ , she thought, looking him up and down. She _wanted_ to stay, but even Dorothea had standards for how much she was willing to humiliate herself.

“If you so much as arrive one minute late, I’m leaving.”

She quickly closed the door on her way out.


	17. unfinished business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter had to be divided in two because it was getting too big and I don't want to overwhelm you, so I'm splitting it, which is why it may feel like it ends halfway something (because it actually does lmao)  
> Disclaimer for excessive soft touches. Thank you for your patience.

_beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,_   
_the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting._   
**jorge luis borges**

She didn’t look surprised when she arrived at the building that housed _La Maison Juste_ at nine in the morning and found Marcel already waiting for her there. As she had expected, he was under a heavy hangover, so she didn’t laugh at him for his punctuality as to not inflate his already nasty humour.

Alma directed her to the upper floor, where the room that had been broken into was located. Dorothea was nice to her, like she usually was to any strangers, and tried her best as to not show any signs that she and Alma knew each other.

“Good morning.” She said, loud enough to irritate him, once Alma led her into the room.

It was a vast study, with tall windows that were crystal clear, letting daylight come and tint in soft colours the dark furniture. There were a couple of cabinets, made of steel, at a corner, as well as a desk with a dozen stamps carefully separated. Marcel was seated in a chair close to the desk, a big glass of icy water close to him, as he supported his elbow on the armrest, rubbing his eye with his wrist. He looked tired, she noticed, though he had bathed and looked at the very least fresh, as to avoid less attentive glances.

“I’ve moved all your meetings to Monday, monsieur.” Alma told him, sweet and shy. Marcel spared nothing more than an acknowledgement glance at her. “Except for Monsieur Binaud. He was rather insistent in seeing you today.”

Marcel let out a bored sigh, then nodded at her.

“Very well. Let me know when he arrives.” Alma nodded and began to excuse herself, but Marcel’s daemon cooed softly and he widened his eyes as if he had remembered something. “Alma, you mentioned issues with your renting. Take an extended lunch, solve the problems you have to solve.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“Before you leave, darling…” Dorothea spoke, and Marcel looked at her, emotionless. Alma turned to Dorothea, doe eyes and anxious shyness, not unlike the woman she had met in Stockholm. “Marcel tells me you’re the one who found the window open.”

“Yes, miss. On my way to work, I pass by that window; this time I noticed it was open.” She put her hands in her pockets. “I always lock the windows before I leave, always, so I knew something was off.”

“Could you perhaps have forgotten about it?”

“I don’t think so. It opens to the outside, you see, and when I go home I always look to see if I properly closed it and it was definitely closed.” Alma explained, quietly. Marcel seemed annoyed now; Dorothea had a feeling he had already questioned Alma thoroughly. “Besides, if I don’t shut it and it rains, the whole room gets soaked.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious nearby?”

Alma hesitated. Her eyes darted to Marcel, who let out a sigh and waved at her.

“Just tell her, Alma.”

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, curious. Alma shifted her stance, uncomfortable, trying to find the words. Her daemon touched her ankle for a show of support.

“Well, two weeks ago this… man began to stalk me everywhere. He was a clerk at one of the offices, and he had seen me at one of the pubs with my friend Amélie. She works as a secretary at the CCD office.” Alma began, blinking slowly while talking to Dorothea. _She managed to befriend a CCD secretary?_ Dorothea thought, quite impressed, though she couldn’t really show. Alma’s daemon was shyly standing by her feet, very unlike him to behave so submissively, but they were good at that acting scheme. “He began to… pursue me, so to speak. We even changed our evening place, but he just wouldn’t stop.”

“I asked Binaud to solve this problem for me.” Marcel mumbled from his place. “He had the man suspended, he seems to work for the Society for the Promotion of the Celibate Virtue - ironic, I know, no need to be smug about it - and as far as I’m aware he hasn’t bothered her ever since.”

“No, monsieur. I haven’t seen him in a while, thank God.”

“And this room, you said you’ve sealed it for a week?” Dorothea paced around, her hands in the pockets of her coat. She was beginning to regret her decision to help Marcel, because it was a big room and she had no idea where to start searching. Astraeus was rather unhappy with her as well, and they hadn’t spoken to each other since the previous evening.

“Yes, it’s been locked from the moment Alma warned me about the window.” Marcel yawned, pointing at the corner of a room, where a safe was placed on a shelf. It was small and dark in colour. “I’ve closed the safe, but that’s all. Everything else is as we found it. I think that will be all, Alma.”

She nodded at him, a little baffled, then excused herself. Dorothea took another glance around the room, before sighing and taking her coat off, dropping it on him, alongside her purse. He didn’t say anything, but his daemon cooed softly, in protest. She went to the middle of the room, hands on her hips, spinning on her heels to look around.

“You considered the man who was harassing Alma.” She said, finally deciding to start with the safe. Astraeus perched himself on top of it, as she took a look at the thing. Nothing seemed wrong with it.

“Of course. I thought that perhaps the people he works for recruited him to get her to help him, but at the end of the day, he was just being a nuisance.” Marcel groaned softly, and Dorothea chuckled. “You wouldn’t happen to have another one of those powders you gave me, would you?”

She didn’t have to look at him to know he was already searching through her purse. Instead, she focused on the safe, examining the extremities, running her finger on the sides. There was nothing wrong with it.

“They didn’t break into the safe.” She announced, turning to him.

He was finishing drinking his glass of water, now lightly coloured in pink. If she didn’t know him so well, she would have felt sorry for his state. He shook his head, a little bit of water running down his cheek, which he wiped with his thumb.

“No. It was open, not a sign of forced entry.”

“You could have told me that before I bothered looking at it.” She scolded him, sitting at the desk and carefully searching through it, the drawers, the papers on the table. Everything was immaculate.

“I wanted to make sure you’re putting in the effort.” He mocked her, and she shook her head at him, before leaning down to look at the last drawers. “Do you always carry a gun in your purse?”

“I carry it everywhere with me.” She said, her voice muffled as she was bending on her stomach. She heard a clicking sound, and slowly sat up straight.

He had her gun pointed at her, a shaky aim, a smile on his face. Dorothea shook her head, displeased, brushing a lock of hair that fell out of her impeccable hairdo.

“Click the safety back on and put it away.” She made her way towards one of the file cabinets in the corner, and Astraeus pointed out that one of the big drawers was slightly open. Marcel’s eyes followed her, as well as her gun pointed at her back, but she ignored that too. “It’s not a toy.”

“Yet you carry it everywhere, in a purse, like it’s a lipstick.” She looked over her shoulder and he had already put the gun back in its place. She frowned at his remarks.

“It’s meant for safety alone.” She leaned forward to inspect the open drawer; it was just open enough that she could see but a glimpse of what was inside, which was a bunch of files. It looked like someone had tried to close it in a hurry, but its rusty sides seemed to have got in the way.

“Tell that to the men you’ve killed.”

She turned to face him, with a bitter grin. He was in a bad mood, and he was trying to drag her along with him, but she knew better. She wanted to solve his problem and leave Geneva as quickly as she could and there was no way on Earth Marcel would bait her into overextending her stay.

“I didn’t use a gun.” Marcel tilted his head, amused. She placed her hands on her hips. “Did you notice this cabinet has been opened?”

“Yes, I did. It’s why I told you some files were stolen.”

“What’s in the cabinet?”

He opened his mouth, just barely, then closed it again. She immediately realised he was pondering what to say, and that meant the files that were missing must have been quite relevant. She crossed her arms over her chest, and Astraeus perched on her head, pleading eyes.

“Invoices.” Marcel finally said, his voice faltering slightly.

“Right.” Dorothea scoffed, and turned back at the cabinet.

She opened the drawer, and it was filled with files, in different colours of folders. She opened a couple, and unusually, Marcel had said the truth. Except most of the invoices were censored or had certain specific information striked with red pens or stamps. She turned to him, one of the folders opened in hand.

“What exactly are these invoices?” She had a vague idea, but she wanted to see if he had purchases of his own that were filed away in there, as most of the files she read were dated back to when Auguste Binaud was in charge. He wasn’t a squirmish man, but in his hungover state, she expected him to slip up. If he did, though, she didn’t notice.

“Undisclosed purchases. Of sensitive nature, so to speak.” She smirked at him and he shook his head, before she could make any jests. “Auguste had the habit of bringing his dalliances here and using our money to pay for dinners, hotels, jewelry, the lot.”

“You were his errand boy, I assume?”

“All the assistants were, yes, but because I used to work late hours, I did most of these… tasks for Binaud, including lying to his wife about his whereabouts.” He sighed. “Thank God that is over. Worst part was having to deal with the mistresses, who somehow seem to always forget their place.”

“That’s rather cruel of you.” She placed the folder back on, and examined the others. “Do you know which files were stolen?”

“Not really. They are far too similar to tell which ones were stolen, and frankly, they are the least of my concerns. The Alethiometer has priority.”

“Very well.” She said, in an amused tone, while examining the keyhole in the drawer. Astraeus hovered to look even closer at it. “Do you have a naughty invoice as well?”

“No.” He said, calm, composed, but too fast. She noticed, and he knew she had noticed, but he didn’t even flinch when she glanced at him, a mischievous glitter on her eyes. Dorothea didn’t think he was the sort of man to run around with prostitutes at his workplace, he was also not the sort of man to take on lovers, but his reaction was puzzling.

“Liar. This drawer, though, it opens with a key. How many copies?”

“Only one, usually stays with Alma.”

“Well, then we have a problem, because this cabinet wasn’t open with a lockpick. There’s no scratches or marks in it. They used a key.” She turned to Marcel, who stared at the cabinet, his jaw tense. His daemon opened her wings, slightly. “Maybe Alma lost the key, someone made a copy.”

“It’s possible, she’s efficient but she has the tendency of misplacing her keys, her pens, her purse.” He rubbed his eyes, irritated and sleepy. “But still, recently she’s been wearing her keys around her neck, in a necklace type of thing.”

“There must be a copy you aren’t aware of.” She sighed, then began examining the drawer, pulling files away and looking at them one by one. Meanwhile, Astraeus was watching Marcel, who stared at her intensely. Her daemon became uncomfortable, thus the feeling reflected on her, though she tried to shake that off and focus. “I know you have a suspicion. You’re a clever man, you have someone in mind, surely.”

“I do.”

“You should tell me. Make my job easier.”

“I can’t just make accusations without proof.” Marcel stretched his neck, brushing the dust off his knee. Astraeus was watching him, and he knew as well as she did, that when Marcel didn’t make eye contact, meant he was disgracefully uncomfortable.

“I’m not your superior, I’m not gonna reprimand you for accusing an ally on a whim.” She laughed.

Dorothea ran her hand through the empty drawer, looking for nothing specific. Her hand touched something small and spherical, she took it delicately and examined it. It was a small bead, crystalline, blue in colour, with something painted in a golden letter in it. E.

“ _E?_ ” Astraeus whispered to her, very quietly. She had a familiar feeling come about her, but Marcel sighed loudly, so she concealed the bead in her hand and carefully placed it in her pocket, before turning to the man.

His frown was rather unsettling.

“The Court of Common Order. I think it’s their doing.” He whispered, looking away from her, as if he dreaded just speaking that aloud.

“Chevalier?” Her surprised tone did not help improve his mood. None of them had a big opinion of Gareth Chevalier, he was rather standard for a Magisterium employee, not impressive nor particularly ambitious. Clever enough to know the Church had power and influence and money, dumb enough to make a bold move like stealing from Marcel. “You mean it?”

“Well, they used the code for the safe, and he would have known that. Unfortunately, I was careless enough that I didn’t think of changing it when I took the office.” She could sense how bitter he felt about that, which was why she didn’t press on. “And, now with the key business, he could have made a copy before he left. Maybe trying to blackmail Binaud, I don’t know. I’ve been getting in his way recently, most of the motions I put out are backed by others, while he’s been losing supporters as he often goes against my ideas.”

She nodded, her eyebrows raised.

“He is in charge now?”

“In a way. His boss still is legally the boss, but he leaves Chevalier in charge of everything. I think he blames me for getting fired, doesn’t like me in the slightest.” Marcel sighed. “Very passive aggressive. Recently made a joke about how there is a lack of women around me.”

“He was always a bit unpleasant. It was kind of your fault, though, remember?” She chuckled.

“I also have the strangest feeling that he blames me for not getting you as a… conquest.” He said the word with an ounce of disgust that he failed to conceal. She snickered, which annoyed him. “What is so funny? I remember he flirted with you quite openly.”

“He did, but the fact he could think that _you_ are the reason I didn’t choose him is quite ridiculous.” She closed the file and walked back to the center of the room, hands on her hips once more, trying to think about what to do next. “Even if you weren’t in the picture, I wouldn’t have allowed him to touch me under any circumstances. It doesn’t look like it, I know, but I do have some self-respect.”

“Yet you let Gerard Bonneville touch you.” She turned to him, only to see his grin. Dorothea shook her head, frowning. “Your logic is very flimsy.”

“Do you want to find your Alethiometer on your own?” She spat, and Marcel raised his eyebrows, amused and puzzled. “Then I suggest you don’t push your fucking luck.”

She searched the rest of the room in silence, as Marcel’s mood was not improving, but rather getting worse now that he had voiced his concerns out loud. The idea that a moron like Gareth Chevalier had bested him in such an intrusive manner was rather offensive and despite all his flawless behaviour, his polite and calm manner, Marcel had a big ego that had been wounded. She did not envy Chevalier at all; to be at the end of the spear of Marcel’s wrath was a mistake that she tried her best to avoid committing.

He watched her quite obscenely as she searched everywhere, without telling him anything, his eyes following her every move, making her utterly uncomfortable, but she was trying to remain focused. Her mind was split between the bead and what Marcel had told her, yet something didn’t seem quite right. If Chevalier was behind it, why would he need indiscrete files and why would he flee or enter through the window, when he could have just made a copy of the front door key as well? Astraeus offered solutions, quietly, in her ear but none satisfied her. It didn’t add up.

In her thorough search through the room, she stumbled upon two spyflies, carefully placed behind one of the cabinets and the other was stuck on the inner side of the bed. Marcel seemed annoyed by it, but as he explained, the room was rarely used, so the spyflies were pointless, as these weren’t mobile ones. They were of a new model, shaped like grapes; she asked for her purse and looked for a small piece of magnet, a strong magnet.

“Do you have a whole kit of weapons inside your purse?” He was baffled, but she ignored him, clicking her tongue.

“It’s not a weapon, it’s a magnet.” She placed it over the spyflies, holding both of them tightly, and she moved her hand closer to his ear so he could hear the satisfying clicking sound that happened when the magnet touched them. “You hear that? It’s the mechanism being shifted, because they’re entirely made of metal. They’re useless now, though they still record everything, but it’s damaged and we don’t have the technology to salvage anything.”

“Where did you learn that?” He examined the spyflies she had dropped on his lap, incredulous.

“I have a doctorate, you know? I actually have some degree of intelligence.” She mocked him, and he shook his head while grinning. She was finishing her search of the room, while he still watched her to the point it became uncomfortable. “Do you intend to watch me all day?”

“Certainly. This whole room is filled with sensitive information and I have no intention of leaving you alone.”

He seemed entertained, at the very least. She sat on the desk, close to him, her foot slowly touching his leg.

“You’re just afraid I’m going to find your naughty invoice.” She mocked, and he rolled his eyes at her, his hand brushing against her ankle.

“You’re not gonna find anything.” He growled.

“Right, because someone _stole_ them.” She laughed, and Marcel simply shook his head. She looked at him, curious. Astraeus whispered another suggestion at her, and she was prepared to dismiss it, but something stirred inside her. “Tell me, have you seen Binaud recently?”

“I’m about to meet Pierre today, in case you weren’t paying attention.”

“I mean, Auguste.”

“Oh, we had dinner two or three weeks ago.” Marcel stood up and stretched his arms in front of her, close enough that his scent was noticeable. “Normal, overall. His daughter was dressed up in a horrible dress. It was all rather unpleasant.”

“That’s odd.”

“Is it? She’s sixteen now, and I got the impression he was trying to steer me her way. She was rather unhappy, quiet and unresponsive as usual; the whole thing reminded me of Marisa, truth be told.” Dorothea raised an eyebrow, puzzled. He sighed. “Mother used to throw dinner parties quite consistently, dressing Marisa up to show her off to society, in that case, men. She hoped Marisa would marry into the Magisterium.”

“Unlucky her, I guess. But about Evelyn… I’ve seen her the day before yesterday, she seemed happy, a little anxious, not distraught though. She didn’t mention anything about these… dinners.”

“Well, she’s either a good liar or something changed, she was very unhappy at dinner. Then she came to see me a couple of days after, begging me about her father’s dalliances. She wanted me to confirm if he had lovers in the past two or three years.”

“What did you say?” Dorothea tilted her head, amused, though inside, her mind was actively making assumptions.

“I said I didn’t know anything about that.” Marcel crossed his arms over his chest. Dorothea shook her head in disapproval, which made him sigh. “What was I supposed to say? It’s not like I have hard proof, and that is none of my business.”

Dorothea held her chin, biting her lower lip while trying to organise her thoughts. Astraeus whispered something in her ear, and she hummed in acknowledgement.

“What is it?” Marcel asked briskly.

“Eve is terrified of you. Why would she come to you for assistance?” She sighed, rubbing her temples. “She must be desperate. I’ll need to have a word with Binaud about this.”

“The Alethiometer--” Marcel began, but she raised her finger to shush him.

“I know, I know. I can do multiple tasks at once.”

They didn’t have time to argue further because Alma arrived to inform Pierre Binaud had arrived. Marcel oriented her to stay with Dorothea while he was away, and so she did.

“Don’t leave her alone and don’t let her seduce you into thinking she is harmless. She is not, trust me.” He said, and Dorothea smirked but said nothing. Then he turned to face her, stoic and emotionless, pointing at her. “And _you,_ don’t corrupt my secretary. She’s a good, modest girl and you’re a bad influence.”

“What a slander! I’m a good girl too!” She smiled at Alma, widely, which made her chuckle quietly. Marcel shook his head and left the room.

They couldn’t really talk to each other openly, so Dorothea addressed Alma like a friendly stranger would. Alma quietly moved about, watching Dorothea finish her sweep of the room, and she carefully put a note in Dorothea’s coat, now lying on the desk. As expected, it was either a message and a report, and Dorothea put her coat on again, just to prevent Marcel from accidentally finding the note while going through her pockets.

Sitting at the desk again, she took a piece of paper and prepared herself to write. She tapped the pencil, musically, on the wooden desk, making soft noises.

“Do you enjoy working here?” Dorothea asked, and Alma nodded. “Does he treat you well?”

“Very much so. Monsieur Delamare is strict but fair. He pays well too.” Her voice was calm and sweet and shy, all in good measure.

Dorothea smiled, admiring the skill which Alma had in sinking herself inside her persona. It made her grateful for not being Marcel; she would have hated to be spied by someone so skilled.

***

Marcel returned half an hour later, in a foul mood, if that was even remotely possible. He dismissed Alma, who was observing as Dorothea was writing a letter in code. Unlike many of her colleagues, Dorothea had a skill to write letters in code without ever needing to write them normally first. She had memorised her ciphers and she could do it in a state of dreaming, her mind reaching for the information as easily as she could speak different languages.

She was very focused, he could see, though all that showed on her, physically, was a crease between her eyebrows. He put his hands on his pockets and stood before the desk, towering over her but she hardly noticed. He watched her, curious, as she bit the pencil, then tapped it twice on the table and made another annotation that he couldn’t understand.

“Look.” His daemon whispered. She meant for him to look at Astraeus, small and shimmery, perched on the desk beside his person.

While Dorothea was active and concentrated, Astraeus was in a state of semi sleep. His body rocked, back and forth, in an enticing and entrancing rhythm, that Marcel realised, followed the pace of Dorothea’s writing. He had his eyes half closed, his beak partially open; possessed was a good way of describing it.

The owl landed close to him, but didn’t approach or engage; she simply watched. Every now and again, Astraeus chirped quietly, almost like a moan, and that was often at the same time Dorothea would run her fingers through her hair. _Thinking_ , he thought too. He was pondering what to say.

“Tell me, in how much danger is Marisa?” He asked, and Dorothea took notice of his presence, raising her eyes to him. The crease between her eyebrows vanished, her expression now one of wariness. She dropped her pencil, quietly, and straightened herself to look at him properly.

He rather liked the way she looked at him, with a curiosity and an eagerness to understand him. It had an effort not many people were willing to devote to, and everything about her was genuine. He was unused to that, and she didn’t know that, but that was why she had such a hold over him.

“I can’t say. It depends on what Asriel intends to do with what he learned from our research, and on how much the CCD will try to punish anyone remotely involved in the business.” Dorothea stretched her fingers, frowning. “I mean, I don’t believe they can punish everyone involved, but they can make examples out of meaningful people, like Asriel, or Marisa.”

“They aren’t happy with the Master of Jordan for financing Asriel.” Marcel said, resting his hand on the desk. She tilted her head, a faint smile on her lips. He couldn’t help but think she looked tired, though not as tired as he was feeling at the moment.

“That was hardly his fault. Trust me, I’ve known Asriel for a great part of my life, and when he wants something he gets what he wants, no matter the cost.” Dorothea said, standing up and folding the note she was writing. She approached him, close enough that _improper_ couldn’t begin to describe the situation. The note pressed against his chest, he took it from her hands. “Are they really gonna execute him?”

“Yes, unless he stops his research.” He opened the note and took a peek inside, but all he saw was random numbers and letters, and an address in Paris at the bottom of the page. Marcel raised an eyebrow. “They’re sending Marisa to oversee it.”

Dorothea laughed, heartily.

“My, my, his chances of surviving just increased.”

“Nonsense.”

“Certainly not.” Dorothea said, and she picked up her purse while her daemon carefully nested on her head. She gave Marcel a pitying glance, which annoyed him. She was the last person he needed pity from. “They have feelings for each other and I don’t believe she can carry out his sentence. They have a child together, and they had an intense relationship in the past; that’s not an easy bond to ignore.”

“You’re underestimating Marisa’s skill to survive at all costs.” Marcel scoffed. “If she doesn’t carry on with the sentence, she’ll get in trouble.”

“Perhaps I am, but I believe I am right. Feelings tend to make us stupid and irrational, even your sister isn’t imune to them.” Dorothea chuckled. Marcel indicated the note in his hands, a puzzling glance in his eyes. “Would you be so kind as to ask your secretary to put this in the mail for me? I have lots of errands to run today and I don’t have the time to do it myself.”

“Who did you write to?”

“An acquaintance. I have a feeling I might need assistance to recover your Alethiometer.” She adjusted her silky scarf around her neck, her long fingers slowly scratching her skin as she clumsily tried to put it in place. Nothing about Dorothea was graceful, or seemed graceful, and Marcel thought of that as amusing. Yet, at times, when he wasn’t so focused on her, she could be the epitome of immense delicacy, though still quite rough.

“I rather you didn’t involve anyone else in this business.” He stated, monotone, but she simply sighed and patted his chest.

“I can’t break into a Magisterium office on my own-- Well, I could, but why make it difficult when I can make it easier?” Her witty smile was irritating, he thought, but it was endearing, he was willing to grant her that. “You asked for my help, you might as well trust me.”

He shook his head, avoiding her gaze for a moment, then he put the note in his pocket.

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes when she patted his cheek and turned to leave, when his daemons whispered in his ear. He nodded. “Wait. Before you leave, there’s something I want to show you.”

Her effort to not look surprised pleased him, while they went down the stairs, back to his office. After his conversation with Pierre Binaud, which had been nothing but sour spitefulness, he realised he would have a hard time fulfilling his side of the deal with Dorothea. Part of him didn’t care much, but part of him didn’t want to upset her, to the point he would lose her as an ally. His daemon didn’t enjoy that, but she could see the logic in his decision; as long as Dorothea was happy, she was agreeable and that’s what he needed.

In his office, he pointed at a painting hanging on the wall behind his desk. Dorothea scanned it, her lips parted, her eyes moving slowly through every inch of the big canvas. It was a beautiful impressionist work, filled with colours that popped amongst muted tones of grey, bright pinks and blues and oranges, warming up an urban landscape filled with lampposts and dark buildings. The painting felt misplaced in the austere office, a burst of life and beauty amongst sharp and colourless furniture.

Her daemon flew closer while she took another step, her hand reaching for the painting.

“Don’t touch it.” He said slowly, startling her, and she turned to him with a smile. Approaching him, close enough that her chest was brushing against his, Dorothea offered him a wicked, yet puzzled smile.

“It’s an original, isn’t it?” She whispered.

He hesitated, which for her, was enough of an answer. Her snickering annoyed him, but somehow he was pleased with her keen eye.

“Yes, it is.” His eyes were now on the painting, and she saw that hint of pride that he hid so well under his apathy. _Quite an indulgent man,_ she thought. “I bought it a while back, in a… private auction.”

“I see. Your naughty invoice, then. That’s what it is, right?” He nodded quietly. “You could have just told me.”

“I don’t mind the invoices, Dorothea. I’m just showing you this because I know you will continue to try and find the invoices, because you’re nosy. This way you can focus on your task. Your _actual_ task.”

“You said you couldn’t tell which ones were stolen.” She had a witty expression, as if she had outsmarted him in any way, which she hadn’t, but trying to start that discussion was pointless.

“Not the Auguste ones, they’re many, but I only have two, and they’re missing.”

“Two? What is the other one?” She asked and his bored attitude made her laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just curious. You’re so secretive.”

“I’d rather show you what I got.” He said, side eyeing her. “Tonight. Can you come by my apartment in the evening?”

“I suppose.”

Her hands were resting on his lapel, her head slowly tilted as she pulled him closer. Dorothea could feel his warm breath near her face when she heard footsteps, probably Alma’s. He stepped away at once, his daemon opening her wings as he rubbed his neck, awkwardly. Dorothea chuckled.

“I’ll be seeing you, Delamare.”

He didn’t turn to watch her leave.


	18. last resort of good men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit dialogue-inclined, but I tried to make it flow nicely, and I think it came out alright. There's some philosophy talk too, and I have Dorothea address the alethiometer as someone who has a very basic knowledge of it, so it doesn't fully align with what we know in canon. Mostly because I feel like we already have a dozen canon explanations, and I wanted to do something a bit different.
> 
> I did a bit of research about Switzerland, and I've learned they are divided into cantons, or something like that, which are kind of states? I think, sorry if you're Swiss and it's wrong. But ultimately the cantons have certain languages that are predominant, and from what I've learned Zurich is mostly german, so it's why I chose that one. Also because it's the only city I know outside Geneva lmao

_as I breathe, he burns my lungs like a fever_   
_and fills me with an eternal guilty desire._   
**charles baudelaire**

Dorothea chose a quiet and carefree restaurant for her appointment. She and Astraeus had debated a lot on their way back to their hotel room, considering all the evidence they had found the office, which wasn’t much. The bead, though, was quite interesting and while she was rather doubtful of Astraeus’s theory, he had managed to nag her enough to at least give it a go.

So, they took a bath and she changed into a fresher dress with short sleeves, and wearing her sunglasses, she made a call to Auguste Binaud’s house and made an invitation for a late lunch.

At the restaurant, she chose a table inside as opposed to the more exposed (and easily escapable) tables on the outside, and patiently waited, having a sip of her cold orange juice now and again.

“I think you’re wrong.” She told Astraeus, casually, as he was perched on the table, staring back at her.

“Well, I think I’m not.” He snapped, opening his little wings in a gesture of displeasure. “You’re distracted.”

She hummed in agreement, rolling the bead between her fingers, looking outside. Astraeus perched himself on her shoulder, nudging his head against her cheek, but not even that seemed to have pierced the veil of thoughts that she had about her that day.

“What do you reckon he wants to show us?” She mumbled, quietly, her fingers slowly brushing up and down on her glass.

Marcel’s proposition had been even weirder than before, and it left Dorothea wondering if she had made a mistake by staying in Geneva at all. Nothing about him felt misleading, because his usual behaviour was to be misleading, but the way he was behaving just felt off. Honesty wasn’t quite his strongest trait, and although she would never admit it out loud, that also wasn’t what drew her to him in the first place.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s some sculpture or something.”

“A sculpture?” She turned her head a little briskly, sending Astraeus flying back to the table. Her intrigued expression had him snickering, softly. “That would be weird.”

“Well, he _is_ weird, Thea.”

“True enough.”

Walking by the window, Dorothea saw Evelyn and waved at her and smiled. She then sat straight on her chair, brushing the table cloth with one hand and holding the tiny bead in the other. Astraeus went back to her shoulder as Evelyn made her way inside, looking taller and pretty and the perfect image of shy youth in her floral dress that was way too modest for a girl her age. She looked like she had rushed a bit, her cheeks red, a bit of hair sticking to her forehead, her small purse tightly gripped by her long fingers. Dorothea took a quick look at her wrist; she usually wore a small bracelet, with _blue_ _beads_ that had her name clumsily painted on them, but the bracelet was nowhere to be found.

“Be gentle with her.” Astraeus whispered and she nodded. Dorothea had no intention of scaring Evelyn or being harmful in any way. She rather liked the girl and with all honesty, she was amused by the fact that, if Astraeus was right, Marcel would have been outsmarted by a sixteen year old girl.

“I’m so sorry I am late.” She said, sitting down clumsily. Dorothea managed to prevent the flowers on the table from being knocked over and she smiled at Evelyn. "I’m so sorry. Maman made me change dresses twice.”

“It’s alright, darling, take a breath.” She gestured at the waiter and asked for a glass of water. “Did she give you too much trouble?”

“When is she not giving me trouble?” Evelyn breathed out, settling her hair straight with her fingers. In a minute or two she was presentable again, drinking the water the waiter brought.

They ordered their food and Dorothea watched the girl for a moment. Evelyn was rather naive for her age, having been shielded by her parents her whole life and only recently attending school with girls her age. The difference in her now was resounding, Dorothea realised with pleasure, because it was a good thing after all.

“How is school?” She asked, casually.

“Oh, it’s nice! Most of the girls are very nasty, but I’ve made friends too.” She took a bite out of her food. “Gisele and I spend most afternoons around the city, on museums or libraries.”

“And your mother let you?”

“Well, she doesn’t like it and puts a curfew every time, but it’s better than nothing.”

“I suppose so. Tell me, have you seen monsieur Delamare recently?” She wanted to see how far Evelyn was willing to go with her lie.

“He came to dinner a few weeks ago.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. Dorothea waited patiently for her words. “Father was rather intent on showing me off to him.”

“Was he interested?”

“Goodness, no. He was rather bored. I think my friend Gisele has a crush on him, though.” 

“Really?” Dorothea added, not very interested in it though.

“Yes, but she doesn’t like to talk about it. People think him odd, he’s not exactly a super catch here.” She smiled wittily. “Besides, as far as I’m aware, he doesn’t like Swiss girls. Only _English women._ ”

She offered the girl a witty smile in return, but also had the decency of looking embarrassed by the suggestion. It wasn’t beneficial to be perceived as a loose moralist.

“Ah, I see. It must be the weather we have in England.”

She reached out with her hand and placed the little bead on the table, as soon as they were finished with their lunch. Evelyn’s eyes lingered for a while over the small thing, her face devoid of any emotion, but her daemon winced by her feet.

“Where did you find this?” The way her eyes widened made it clear that she realised the mistake she had made by saying that at all.

“It was inside an archive, in a private room, at the La Maison Juste building.” Dorothea used her index finger to push the bead in Evelyn’s direction, and the girl slowly reached for it, holding it tight in her clenched fist. She stared at Dorothea, confused. “You know, I was sort of hoping Astraeus was wrong and you had nothing to do with this, but you clearly have. Where do we go from here, Eve?”

She had expected what happened next to happen, but she rather hoped it wouldn’t, as her outfit was not meant to chase someone down a busy street. Evelyn stood up in a hurry, stumbling on the table, and she quickly walked out of the restaurant, running by the window where Dorothea saw her for the first time that day.

“Shouldn’t we be chasing her?” Astraeus asked when Dorothea calmly patted her mouth with her napkin, then taking some money inside her purse and tipping the waiter generously. She finally sighed.

“Well, it’s not like she’s going anywhere, her mother being as controlling as she is. We’ll just let her have a head start.”

All things settled, Dorothea finally followed Eve down the street, with a considerable distance between them; she could only see a small version of Eve’s figure down the street, so she changed her pace to catch up.

Evelyn, having such conservative parents that didn’t let her roam around the city, was very unsure which path to take, but she still was more familiar with the city than Dorothea. The girl stumbled across people, looking back to check how close Eilhart was, then went faster, anxious, clutching her purse while her daemon followed her.

While Astraeus made his way flying as high as he could without hurting them, Dorothea ran across the sidewalks, attracting a flimsy attention by the citizens, who quickly looked away from this erratic woman.

“There’s an alley up your left!” Astraeus suggested, and she made her way there, dodging a pedestrian in a lithe movement. She was unsure of what Astraeus was doing, especially because they still were sour with each other from the previous evening, but they were still one and his confidence leaked as if it was her own and she went along with his plan.

He moored her, this way and that, cutting through different alleyways, until they reached what was an opening to a very busy avenue. She leaned against a wall and took a peek, only to see Evelyn coming right to her. She hadn’t seen Dorothea yet.

“Be gentle--” Astraeus began to say, as breathless as his person, perching on her shoulder. Dorothea, however, was already preparing to teach Eve a proper lesson on action and consequences. She was sweaty, hot, a full mess after that sprint.

On the last possible moment, Dorothea stuck her leg out and that was enough of a barrier to send Evelyn rolling on the floor. There was a high pitch scream, then a daemon wince, and there she was, lying on the floor.

“Come on, up you go.” Dorothea said, taking the girl by her armpits and forcing her up. She was very light, but essentially a dead weight as she didn’t help herself stand up. Leaning Eve against the wall, Dorothea checked the damage. A bruise on her chin and on her knees, bad enough it was bleeding considerably, but overall she seemed alright. “Now, now, don’t cry. It’s okay, we’ll fix you up. Come on.”

***

She hailed a cab back to her hotel room, a weeping Evelyn on her arms. The driver didn’t inquire about her state, but Dorothea informed him all the same about how Eve tripped and fell on the pavement. The girl didn’t protest. Now that her sprint and rush of adrenaline were over, she seemed to be lost in her dismay, quietly weeping while leaning against Dorothea.

Back in her room, she sat Evelyn on her bed and asked at the reception for a first aid kit, and patiently waited for it while looking at Eve, who embraced her dog daemon and wept and wept as if the end of the world was about to come.

“She’s a mess.” Astraeus remarked, quietly. “You didn’t have to hurt her like that.”

“She needed a lesson.” Dorothea sighed.

“Marcel makes you cruel, you know?” He said and Dorothea moved her shoulders, uncomfortable. That sent him to a different place to perch on. “When you’re around him, you become cruel.”

She didn’t grace him with a reply, instead receiving her first aid kit and kneeling before Eve to treat her bruises.

“You really broke into Delamare’s office?”

No answer, only a face of pain and despair, with lips tightly pressed while Dorothea patted the antiseptic on her knees as gently as she could. The remark about cruelty made her too self-conscious of her actions.

“I _know_ you were there, this is just courtesy. Were you alone?”

No answer again. Dorothea sighed loudly, stopping her treatment of the wounds after Eve winced from the pain.

“Eve, you’re in deep trouble right now, let me help you.” Dorothea said, reaching for the girl’s hand and squeezing it. Evelyn barely reacted, her eyes stuck somewhere past Dorothea’s shoulder, her mind drifting anywhere but that room. Dorothea was familiar enough with that technique because she had used it a lot as a child herself. “I know you took something from the office, but there was something else stolen from there. Do you know what it was?”

“No.” The girl’s voice was almost nonexistent.

“But you know it was stolen.”

No answer, not clearly, except for a faint nod.

“You saw someone there, didn’t you?” Dorothea pressed on, but Evelyn didn’t react again. “You’re a bad liar, Eve. Now, it’s either tell me or tell Delamare and he is not a gentle man, let me warn you.”

“No, please!” Eve cried out, her daemon whimpering too. “He is going to kill me or worse, tell my mother--”

Dorothea made a big effort not to laugh, and Astraeus chastised her quietly, in her ear. She brushed Eve’s shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.

“You need to tell me why you did it, Eve. It’s the only way I can help you.” She said, quietly.

“They keep throwing all these dinners and soirees, all these old men stinking of cigars… That’s not what I want for me. I want to go to a university, and have friends and see people my age, and--” She sobbed uncontrollably, and Dorothea took advantage of her distraction and finished cleaning her wounded knees. “I planned this a few years ago, when father was still working there. He used to take me there sometimes, to show me the Alethiometer, and I managed to make a copy of the key he had, for the cabinet. But I never had the guts to follow along with the plan.”

“You wanted to use the files as leverage?” Eve nodded and Dorothea shook her head. “You could have just written to me, I would have come for you.”

“I got nervous, I was afraid my mother was reading my letters, she’s been horrible since I started school.” Eve sobbed. “I didn’t want to trouble you either.”

“If you need me, you can always ask for my assistance, Eve. Did someone tell you to break into the office? Why now?”

“I-- I don’t know.” She stuttered, and her daemon rested his head on her lap, pleading eyes. Dorothea sat beside her, waiting patiently for their exchange to conclude. One of them had to be reasonable, she expected the daemon would be that person. “Monsieur Chevalier told me to be brave and bold and I thought he was right.”

 _You have got to be kidding me,_ Dorothea thought, puzzled. Chevalier seemed to be involved with everything going on in Geneva, as far as she was concerned, which was a surprise and utterly ridiculous. He was nothing like that when they met a year and a half ago.

“What do you mean, Monsieur Chevalier?”

“You know, Gareth. You met him once and--”

“I know, what I mean is, how come you have been in contact with him?” Dorothea watched Eve blush without control, and she averted her eyes quickly, but Dorothea held her chin and turned her face toward herself again. “Why are you talking to him? He’s an adult.”

“Gisele and I, we sometimes go to a pub nearby the university, and I met Gareth there once and we started talking. He goes there often, many Magisterium people do, well I don’t think Monsieur Delamare goes there but you know, normal people do, as it’s more of a… fancy pub, I think. I don’t know many pubs to compare.” Dorothea tried to conceal her horror while Eve was explaining everything to her, casually, her voice still muffled but her tears were beginning to dry. She seemed calmer now. The only thing keeping her talking so freely was the fact Dorothea wasn’t judging her, like most adults would judge a teenager behaving so irresponsibly, so Eilhart kept nodding encouragingly, while she was imagining several different ways to stomp on Chevalier. “He’s nice, sometimes he brings me flowers. He asks me how my studies are going. I like him.”

“He is a bit old, isn’t he?” Dorothea suggested carefully and a crease appeared between Eve’s eyebrows, but all she did was shake her head.

“He’s younger than Delamare, and he’s not my boyfriend, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” She said, defensive. “He’s just my friend.”

“She’s lying.” Astraeus whispered, after watching the girl and her daemon. Dorothea acknowledged it. The question was, where was the lie? She decided to try and find out later, as there were more urgent matters at the moment.

“Did Chevalier suggest you go to _La Maison Juste_? Did he suggest a particular date for you to do that?” She added, after Eve nodded dutifully. It was easy to extract information from her except for that particular subject, which was very personal, and she was clinging to it for dear life. Eve didn’t seem to make any connection between Chevalier and her little heist, but Dorothea was every passing minute more and more certain he set it up perfectly.

“No, but he said I could find out more about their schedule if I visited Monsieur Delamare and I did.”

“How did you get in, then?”

“I dressed like his secretary. I saw her dress and bought a similar one and dressed up and did my hair like hers. I made a copy of her key and used it to get in, the poor woman, always misplacing her keys, it was so easy and I felt really bad for her, I did! I had to go there several nights, because I just couldn’t find the files I wanted. He wouldn’t tell me about them, your _friend_.” Dorothea raised her eyebrows, puzzled, amused at Eve’s irritated tone. “Mother has taken the habit of going out at night, so I knew I could leave after ten. She usually checks my room a little before that, then goes out, and if I’m lucky, she won’t come back until three or four in the morning. That gave me enough time to leave home, get to the building, search and come back before she arrived. I also had to make sure nothing was misplaced in my search, else they’d know I was there.”

“Did you meet Chevalier before you found the files?”

“Yes, just the night before. I go to the pub using the same method of evading mother after she goes out.” Dorothea tried not to indulge her too much, when a faint smile showed up on her face. She was proud of her feat of escaping home; Dorothea was far more interested in Marcela Binaud going out after ten, though. “He had to leave early that night, though. Had a commitment or something.”

Dorothea hummed in understanding, though what Eve and her were understanding were vastly different things.

“Clever and dangerous. The files, though. You got them and what? What happened?”

“Two men broke in. I couldn’t see them, but they spoke in German. I hid under the desk and stood very quiet, afraid they’d come for me, but they went directly at the safe. It was dark, but we heard them and they were very decisive. They struggled with the code a bit - they couldn’t remember it or it was too dark, something like that! - and then they did it, and whatever they got, they immediately left.”

“How? The window?”

“No, that was me. I forgot the key by the door and they took it and locked me inside. So I had to leave through there, it was so difficult.” Eve breathed out, trying to calm herself down. “My bracelet got stuck in the file cabinet and it broke, so I took all the beads I could find in the dark, as well as the first files I found and I made it home as fast as I could.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

She hesitated, which was in itself, an answer.

“You need to give those files back.” Dorothea used her most serious and commanding tone, which should have been enough to intimidate Eve, but she resisted as much as she could. She buried her hands in her daemon’s fur for support, side-eying Dorothea, her breathing getting fast again.

“No, it’s all I have!”

“You have _me_. I’ll talk to your father, we’ll sort this out.”

“He won’t listen to you, he never listens!” Dorothea held Eve tightly in her arms, as she had begun to cry again.

“I’ll _make_ him listen.” She brushed Eve’s hair away from her face, gently, while exchanging glances with Astraeus, perched behind the girl on the bed. He shook his little head, because like her, he knew her promises were rather vague. She knew she could persuade Auguste Binaud, but it wasn’t a certain thing and that could backfire horribly.

 _I could just take her to England with me_ , she thought and his displeasure with her idea was palpable. He perched on her shoulder to whisper.

“Yes, because kidnapping is a _brilliant_ idea.” Dorothea decided to ignore his remark.

“Don’t worry, darling, we’ll work things out and you’re gonna be fine.” Dorothea let her go, and patted her cheeks. “But you need to tell me the truth about Chevalier.”

“I told you--”

“Well, you’re lying and badly so. Has he forced you to do anything?”

“No, of course not!”

“But you _have_ done something, then.” She added with a witty smirk, that she wasn’t feeling at all. Right now, her mood was getting worse and she couldn’t even blame Marcel for it. Evelyn looked away, her cheeks very red, and her daemon avoided Astraeus’s gaze. “Evelyn, he’s a grown man. What were you thinking?”

“He is nice to me!”

“Well, so am I! Are you gonna fuck me too?” She regretted her choice of words almost immediately, because Evelyn stared at her, almost horrified. Dorothea sighed, scratching her forehead. “Eve, you need to tell me if you’ve done something with him. You could be in _trouble_.”

She expected that to cause some reaction, but Evelyn was very adamant on her stance, bracing herself for whatever Dorothea would throw at her. She was lying, that much was obvious, but Eilhart couldn’t tell why or what exactly was she hiding.

“We didn’t do anything improper.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s your problem, then, because this is the truth.” Evelyn crossed her arms and avoided Dorothea’s gaze with whatever willpower she had left. Astraeus was quietly whispering to the girl’s daemon, but whatever they were saying didn’t feel reassuring.

Realising it was pointless to press on, she helped Eve stand up and took a look at her mild wounds, now cleaned up and patched. Astraeus was right, she didn’t have to hurt the girl that way, but she did it all the same without much of an explanation for herself. She felt ashamed.

“Well, keep your secrets, then. Come on, I’ll take you home. Your father and I need to have a little chat.” Dorothea offered her her hand, which Eve took without a second glance. So much trust, so easily given. She envied that girl immensely.

***

Dorothea’s day was long and busy, talking Auguste Binaud into controlling his controlling wife, making sure that Evelyn wouldn’t be harassed or punished any further. So, when she stopped by Marcel’s apartment, around eight o’clock after cleaning herself up in her hotel room, she welcomed his grumpy and apathetic mood. Warm and comfortable after a long day of running about through the city, Dorothea left her coat on his couch and followed him back to his balcony, accessed by his room.

She pulled him by his hand and leaned against the railing and they kissed for a considerable amount of time. He didn’t protest, nor said anything, but simply indulged her. At one point, he tried to pull her inside the bedroom, because they were rather exposed at the balcony, but she resisted as she rather enjoyed the crisp and cold spring air.

Slowly, she felt the tension in her back fade away, so Dorothea let him go with a pat on the chest and a sigh. Despite feeling less worried, she still was very much concerned about everything. Getting involved in Geneva politics was not her favourite pastime.

“Did you learn anything?” He asked, when she sat on a chair, turned to the city view. He had been smoking a fragrant cigarillo, that she absolutely appropriated to herself, rubbing one of her ankles with her free hand. She watched as he opened his closet, looking for something; all of his clothes were organised by colour. Dorothea looked away before he could see her smirk; he was rather sensitive when it came down to mocking his organizational issues.

“Oh, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve found your thief, well, at least one of them, anyway.” She blew the smoke and he turned to face her, baffled.

“What do you mean?”

“Two sets of thieves came to your building that night, one stole the files, the other stole the Alethiometer.” She explained, slowly, watching his baffled expression shift into dozens of emotions he probably couldn’t name himself. “Lucky for you, one of them saw the other, so now I have a fresh trail to follow. By any chance would you know what sort of men in Geneva would speak German?”

“Industrial workers, more likely, tend to come from Zurich to work in the industrial area here. Better pay from what I hear, which isn’t much. Who did it?” He came to her holding a wooden box, big enough to hold a bible and put it down. It was a rather stoic apparatus, with no sense of design, in a dark and boring colour. Dorothea leaned forward to examine it, as he placed it at the small table between the two chairs in front of the balcony. Cold wind made her rub her legs while she placed the cigarillo down and glanced at him, intrigued.

“Evelyn Binaud.” She smiled at his astonishment. “Oh, yes, I was surprised too. Astraeus was very right about her, though. Clever girl. The day she visited you, she saw Alma wearing a rather pretty dress, so she bought a similar dress and styled herself in a similar fashion to break into your office. Apparently, she made a copy of it a year or two ago, she’s been planning this for a while.”

“Why on Earth would she do that?”

“She wanted files to prove Binaud was still cheating, to blackmail him. Apparently, her mother is trying to marry her off before she could be of age and move to England to study, and she doesn’t want to take any chances.” Marcel’s expression of distaste was funny, but she tried not to laugh. “Don’t worry, I’ve solved that, and she’ll come in the morning and give me the files and her key and she’ll apologise to you and that will be the end of that.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure--”

“Yes, you’re sure. Evelyn is sixteen, she made a mistake and she’ll own up to it, but you cannot charge her or anything.” Her serious tone caught him by surprise. “How will you explain that she went to your office _alone_ ? How can you prove she wasn’t there to meet _you?_ ”

“She wasn’t.”

“Sure, I know that, but you just recently went to have dinner with her family in what was clearly an attempt to show her off and get you interested. Maybe you took a liking to her after all, maybe the two of you have already been meeting, maybe you’re coercing her-- You get my point.” Dorothea watched him bite his lips, irritated, resting against his chair. There was still a soft red smear on his chin, but she didn’t tell him because it made him look funny. His daemon, on the other hand, cooed softly and Marcel used his thumb to wipe the smear away, while glaring at Dorothea. He looked at her as if she was insulting him. “You’re in a lot of trouble, darling. If this blows up in a scandal, you might be screwed for good. I have a feeling that Evelyn might have slept with someone, and if they ask to check on her, you would have a hard time proving you weren’t the one who did it.”

“What do you mean, you have a _feeling_?”

“Well, she says they didn’t do anything, but I don’t believe her. Her daemon said to Astraeus they only kissed, but I don’t think that’s the full truth. I don’t think she is being fully honest with me, which is why I need you to come by my hotel tomorrow, when she comes to apologise, and I need you to put the fear of God in her, so I can get the truth out of her.” Dorothea sighed. “Apparently, she’s been sneaking out during weekends to meet with Chevalier in a pub. Yes, Chevalier. You were right, he’s probably behind this.”

“What if he did something to her, what will you do?” Marcel inquired, seriously. Dorothea smoked the cigarillo one more time, and smiled bitterly.

“Depends. What’s the charge for assaulting a Magisterium official?”

Marcel rubbed his temples.

“This is your fault.” He said, in a mood. “She was a good and quiet girl before you came along.”

“I was good and quiet too, we don’t stay like that forever, darling.” She offered him a smile, that made him shake his head with displeasure. “Chevalier is also fucking her mother, from what I’ve learned today, as well as a good portion of the women in Geneva, so I’d say he is playing a rather dangerous game here. Evelyn saw two men when she was in your office, the two German speaking men. They took the Alethiometer. Give me some time to investigate this, we’ll sort this out.”

Marcel sighed, rubbing his temples, his whole body tense. She patiently waited for his response.

“If someone saw her, Dorothea--”

“No one did that I can tell, and remember, she dressed up like Alma, so you can just say it was Alma instead of Evelyn.”

“How is that any better?”

“Alma is an adult, Marcel. That alone already makes it better. And she is your employee, so you can just say she was working extra hours.” Dorothea snapped. “Worst comes to worst, just say it was me, then. Say I came earlier to Geneva and we met in secret because we value our privacy. There’s no shortage of brunettes for you to pick. It’s gonna be fine, but this is why you can’t charge Evelyn. No point in being vindictive with a silly girl. You’re better than that, I hope.”

She leaned forward and rested her hand on his knee, but all he did was look at her with disgust. She sighed, and backed away in her chair.

“You said you wanted to show me something.” She pointed at the box. “Is this it?”

She carefully moved the box on the table, while he looked at her, serious. Dorothea had the strangest feeling, that perhaps he had changed his mind after what she said. The idea she had just lost a mystery because she wanted to be the smartest person in the room was nagging at her.

He finally moved, reaching for the box and opening it, just like a music box. She was used to Marcel’s soft and precise movements, but the way he took the book out of the box, with such a devout care, left Dorothea breathless. This was something else, something entirely different.

Placing the book before her, not unlike a priest would do with a Bible, Marcel leaned back and observed, holding his chin. She stared at him for a moment, absolutely puzzled, then lowered her eyes to the book. Baffled, she reached for the cover, but remembered the painting situation earlier that day. He snickered when she raised her eyes, as if asking for his permission.

“Yes, you can touch it. Just be careful, it is very fragile.”

“Where the hell did you find this?” She asked, turning the pages with a lot of care.

The book was old, enough that every movement of its pages felt like dust ready to scatter. Despite that, it had been preserved beautifully, its cover laminated and shimmery, the letters and symbols carved into leather, then painted in a golden ink that had sustained a lot of time damage, but ultimately still retained some glitter. It was a journal, in a way, and on the first page inside, the name Pavel Khunrath had been written in a very steady and clear handwriting, probably done by a scribe.

“I bought it, at a private auction, like I said.” His voice made her spiral back into her senses.

“You mean a shady business.” Her smile had a hint of wickedness that he couldn’t help but try and match it. _Sadism suits him infinitely better_ , Dorothea thought.

“It had some dubious procedures, yes, but essentially it wasn’t entirely illegal.”

“Is this legitimate?”

“Yes. I had it authenticated with the Magisterium copy, one we keep in the archives of the Holy Church. This is a copy they believe was crafted by Pavel’s apprentice, though my knowledge of why and how is not that big.” He observed with care as she paged through the book, harnessing whatever delicacy she had in her. “Do you know about it?”

“Only basic things. Khunrath was ahead of his time in, well, every aspect of his studies. Engineering, philosophy, alchemy-- The list is very long.”

“Alchemy?” He didn’t even bother hiding his disbelief, and she laughed.

“Don’t be cynical. Alchemy is, for all intents and purposes, a valid form of experimenting. Though I think it requires a level of belief that some of us no longer are capable of.”

She ran her finger through the page, reading a list of chemicals and metals. Marcel observed quietly, but intrigued. Astraeus whispered that observation to her ear, but she didn’t bother looking up.

“Can you read that?” He asked at last, after seeing her page and slide her index finger slowly through words and more words and weird diagrams, in a way that almost seemed coherent.

“The Latin and Greek bits I can, though it’s difficult. It’s old language, written in an even older period of time.” She turned the page again, now showcasing how to melt an alloy of titanium and something written in a language she didn’t quite understand. The drawings, though, showed a softly glimmery yellow, almost as if gold, which made her think of actual gold. That was the alloy for the Alethiometer, she had no doubt. “I don’t speak Czech, or the equivalent of it from that time, though. Some roots in slavic languages, but it’s not really the same.”

“No one I know sorted out what it says. They say the words don’t make sense together.” He asked once she opened to a page showcasing an illustration of the Alethiometer. She glanced at him and wasn’t surprised to see his skeptical expression.

“That’s because they’re not taking into consideration this was likely coded. Give me some credit, Delamare, I speak a lot of languages.” She pointed at a sentence next to the symbol of the sun. “This one is coded in Khunrath’s famous cypher, it says _authority_ in Latin, one of the Sun’s symbol meanings.” She read the whole page slowly, crisping her lips whenever she found a word she couldn’t get. “Several ciphers are being used here, some of them I know, some of them I’ve never seen before, some of them I would have to use the original code crack. To crack the whole book I would have to spend weeks with it, maybe months and that’s me feeling generous. All of this, packed with the different languages, this book is a nightmare.”

“But you still _can_ read some of it, correct? Just by looking at it.”

She leaned back on her chair and sighed.

“Yes, only because I’m familiar with some of his codes and with the languages he uses. Even then, it’s hard. This book should be in a university, being studied and translated by specialists, not being locked away in your underwear drawer.”

He allowed himself to smirk, not at her underwear commentary, but because she had implied, quite skillfully and unnecessarily, that he had no right to own such a beautiful book.

“I didn’t know you knew so much about the Alethiometer.” He asked instead of answering her. “Can you read it?”

“Heavens, no! I tried to learn when I was in college, but it’s the sort of thing that takes a lifetime to master even the basic concepts, to appropriately read it.” She carefully turned the book so the Alethiometer figure would face him; he didn’t move, but he lowered his eyes to see where she was pointing. His face was immobile, every angle clearly defined by the soft light from the bedroom. “To read it properly, you need to put your mind in the right state, a sort of halfway between sleep and awareness. I do it when I’m writing code, as I’m sure you’ve noticed today, but mine is a little easier to do than this. It’s rather difficult, which is why it’s a discipline one needs to learn through the span of their life. There are no amateur alethiometrists, not in the sense of a hobbyist, anyway.”

“What exactly does it do?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Only the basic concept, that it tells the truth.”

Dorotha shook her head, and that made him raise his chin, his eyebrows frowning, puzzled.

“It’s more of an interpreter of the truth. You see, it doesn’t speak in an entirely coherent manner, but it does tell you something that will be accurate, despite its moods and riddles and loose words. The problem with the truth is that it is relative, most of the time, at least when it comes to asking the question to the alethiometer.”

“That’s nonsense. Truth is absolute.”

“Quite the contrary, truth changes with context. How you would ask a question is totally variable based on your own perception. For example, if you were to ask about Marisa, which symbol would you pick?” She raised her eyebrows and he scanned the figure, and when he moved he rested his finger over the figure of the madonna, but he glanced at her, doubtful, uncertain, delighting her in his ignorance. “Motherhood, femininity, of course it represents the woman, so you’re going with what you know and it’s basic knowledge. But I would have chosen the serpent, mostly because I know some of the symbols. It means, oh well, lots of things, but from my memory is cunning, guile, sometimes evil. That’s because you and I have severely different views of your sister, none is absolutely right, and none is absolutely wrong, and the alethiometer knows that and it works within these parameters. It would give the same accurate answer, as long as we are asking the same question, despite the symbols we choose, although chances are we would pick similar symbols for most of the cases.”

“You speak as if it is conscious.” His smile sent shivers down her spine. She backed away from the book, intertwining her fingers on her lap, running her tongue over her lower lip. “Something wrong?”

“Not really, but assuming you know the nature of the Alethiometer, saying that so loudly feels like bait for heresy.” She stared him down and that made him chuckle. “Unless, of course, you don’t know how it works.”

“Enlighten me. You enjoy that.”

“Well, stand up.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to search your pockets.” She said, standing up, looking around the room, unsure. He looked her up and down, amused, but she gestured for him to stand up and he sighed and obeyed, almost too eagerly. “You’re asking me to speak of something considered heresy, the Magisterium killed a lot more people for less than this. Spread your arms-- yes, like that.”

She searched through his pockets, on his pants and the one pocket on his shirt, then on his shoes as well, the scent of his body all around her, distracting and notorious. Dorothea patted his pants up and down searching for anything that could be a recorder, or a spyfly or anything like that. She unbuttoned his shirt, and he was having a great time at her expense, watching her as if she was a joke.

“Satisfied?” He asked, buttoning his shirt up again and sitting down, watching as she turned on her feet, examining his room warily.

“Not even close, but this will have to do.” She sat down again, brushed her skirt and tapped her fingers against her knees. He waited patiently for her, smug but also curious.

“The Alethiometer seems to have a strong connection with Dust. It has been a difficulty to understand Dust better, because the Magisterium is terrified of it, but the strongest theory is that the Alethiometer communicates with and through Dust.” She pointed at the biggest needle in the figure in the book. “Khunrath wanted to create an astrological device, to read the stars, but he ended up creating a specific alloy that was sensitive to a particular kind of particle, which was later discovered by Rusakov, and named after him. Dust, as we informally call it. It was in space - well, it is supposedly _everywhere_ \- and thus it began to speak to Khunrath’s device, for lack of a better word. _React_ , maybe, something in that line.

“We never learned how to reproduce the alloy, it is very specific, hence the rarity of the devices.” Dorothea ran her fingers around the figure, pondering. Astraeus chirped comfortably from his spot next to the owl. He was happy, she realised. _At least one of us is._ “Dust moves the arrow to the symbols, its nature drawn to the alloy, and it communicates through that. There are other alloys that also react with Dust, such as the mix of manganese and titanium Asriel developed for what he is trying to twist my research into.”

“You said you didn’t know what he was doing.” He seemed amused instead of angry, which was a rare change, considering how irritated he became whenever Asriel was mentioned.

“I don’t, but when he came to ask me if an alloy like that, that seemed to interfere with daemons, could work on the frequency I told him I wasn’t sure, but it might actually work.” She shook her head, her mind feeling light with her own thoughts. “At the time, I didn’t think the arctic frequency was anything but a ghost broadcast, some loose frequency or the magnetic pole playing tricks on devices. The truth is, the thing scared the shit out of me. We only had colourful lights that reacted aggressively when aimed at the frequency and they blinked, almost aimlessly, but there was this feeling… that it was sentient. Conscious. And as you know, Dust is essentially--” She gestured to him and he immediately said it with her.

“Consciousness.” She raised her eyebrows, entertained. He was a good listener, attentive, focused; she could tell he was _heeding_ every word she was saying. Her professors would have loved someone like Marcel in a classroom. She breathed out. “I never understood why the Church was so keen to demonise Dust, you know? If there was ever anything remotely close to proving the existence of God, it was certainly the Rusakov particle.”

“It is not that simple.”

“Certainly not. All the means to measure Dust are either banned or inconclusive and unreliable. It could be that some day, we’ll find out some way to handle it, and that will prove God isn’t real.” She chuckled at her own remark, barely thinking of him, but he smiled at her too. “But to call it Sin, however… That is wrong. Sin is a concept created to control and terrify people into submission and I’m sure Dust has existed longer than the concept of Sin. Besides, the particles _are_ real, they’re just elusive and we know there are other methods, even better ones, to interact with Dust, whereas sin is just an idea that is inconclusive.”

“Perhaps.” He said, matter-of-factly, his eyes locked onto hers. She allowed herself a smile.

“That’s it? Is that all you’re going to say?” She scoffed and he smirked, which annoyed her.

Dorothea clicked her tongue, displeased and paged the book again. The amount of content she could grasp from just a quick glance was already overwhelming. She could scarcely conceal her excitement over the book, but she tried not to give him this pleasure. It was what he wanted, after all. “I gave you enough information, worth two master’s thesis and yet, you say nothing.”

“You just want a debate.” He jested.

“Perhaps.” That made him laugh heartily, which was rare, and it pleased her immensely. _If I had met him in my twenties, the damage he could have done to me..,_ she didn’t allow herself to finish that line of thinking.

“There has been evidence that Dust affects children less than adults.” He said, wittily, and she stopped paying, looked up and scoffed again.

“You mean your sister’s research.” Dorothea added, annoyed. Marisa’s research was a stain in their relationship, a sore subject indeed. Marcel merely nodded. “Just because it doesn’t affect children doesn’t mean it is sinful. In fact, there is no true evidence Dust has any physical impact on a person. It’s a phenomenon that leaves no visible physical trait, other than perhaps the daemons themselves.”

“That you know of.”

“That we know of, yes. This is why scholars exist, to investigate this, if only you weren’t so eager to censor us.” She snapped and he chuckled.

“Marisa has proof that Dust begins to settle on children whose daemon have settled at the age of puberty, and from what I hear, so does Lord Asriel.”

“We already knew that, everyone did, they just provided hard evidence. Ultimately, though, it proves nothing but that daemons and Dust are related, which we already guessed.” She sighed. “When settled, Dust gives shape to your daemon, perhaps, but there is no psychological change, nothing that we have noticed thus far. Dust is… neutral. Independent. It does very little except idle gossip through the right means, I’d say.”

“How narrow-sighted of you.” He said in a sour tone. “I think you’re refusing to see the facts and all their possibilities.”

“I think I have a doctorate in experimental theology while you barely have a degree.” It came out before she could think it through, but she didn’t feel sorry. He was often trying to humiliate her, and she was not a dumb girl he found at a corner to serve him. His jaw got tense, his eyes darkened, she knew immediately she had touched a nerve but she didn’t care. He asked for it. “I know a lot about this, Marcel, because I dedicated a portion of my life to studying physics and the likes. And you’re gonna have to come up with harder evidence than this to sway me into this theory, that is all I’m saying.”

She turned her attention back to the book when he didn’t reply, but she could sense his gaze on her and it made her utterly uncomfortable. _I guess I deserve that,_ she thought. She wished Astraeus would stay near her, but he was busy and satisfied nudging himself against the owl, whispering very quietly. They were barely minding the other conversation, or at least he wasn’t, because Dorothea very much doubted Marcel’s owl wasn’t keen on every word she was saying.

“I appreciate that you showed me this relic, it’s a beautiful journal.”

“You can have it.” His bitter tone didn’t match his words, which confused her.

“What?”

“ _You can have it._ I’ve spoken to Pierre today and it was not a very productive talk. He was very clear on the Muscovite poisoning being a classified business and that everyone who starts asking questions disappears or worse. I can’t continue inquiring on this, but the book is more than worth the Alethiometer.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I am.”

“I can’t. This is… it’s insane.” She gestured at the book, clumsy, puzzled, unaware if he was up to something.

“It’s a bargain.”

“Yes, it’s _too good_ a bargain.” She said, closing the book and pushing it to him. He watched the whole thing with amusement. “I can’t take it.”

“You think I’m setting you up.” He commented, a hint of laughter in his voice. It didn’t happen often, but the way he glared at her made her blush. Dorothea straightened herself on the armchair, trying to look dignified and almost failing. “Do you think that poorly of me?”

“You _are_ a ruthless man, and I already take a great risk by sleeping with you. Sometimes I have to draw the line somewhere.” She smiled, unnerved.

“There are better ways to incriminate a person, Dorothea.” He said, and put the book back inside its box. Closing it, he pushed it towards her again, a decisive gesture. “This is my most prized possession, and I have nothing else to offer you, unfortunately. It’s yours, if you want it.”

She sighed, loudly, biting her lower lip as she pondered what to do. That book was a work of art, in any circumstances she would have jumped at the prospect of owning it, but at that moment she hesitated. As usual, he waited; for all his capital sins, Marcel had been born with the most graceful of virtues: patience.

“Very well, I guess. But keep it here for now. Hotel rooms aren’t exactly safe, especially not mine.” She pushed the box towards him one last time, and Marcel nodded, picking it up and going back to his closet to put it away. She watched him go, a slow pace, and she wondered if his hangover was finally gone.

“What will you do about Chevalier?” He asked, still leaning over his drawer. Dorothea leaned against her chair, pouting, her legs crossed. Both their daemon had their eyes on her now.

“I’m still not sure. I’d rather just retrieve your alethiometer quietly, without much fuss.” She mumbled, scratching her chin. She almost didn’t notice he was back, standing close to her, his hand on her neck. Marcel ran his fingers against her skin, and she found herself snickering. “But I’ll need to do some reconnaissance in their offices, find out about the employee schedules. Standard stuff, really. The less you know the better, trust me, in case I get captured or something like that.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could make this a quiet business.” He offered her a wicked smile. “You have a tendency to be very loud.”

Dorothea chuckled, resting her hand over his, still on her neck. Marcel pulled her up, briskly, and slowly kissed her.

“I promise I’ll be as discreet as I can.” She ran her fingers through his hair, leisurely. “It’s a heist. There really aren’t a lot of things that can go wrong, are there?”


	19. a paragon of her kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! I am so sorry it took me a month to update! It's been hard recently, but it's finally here! Thank you for your support and feedback!

> _I am convinced, however, that men_   
>  _do more harm to themselves than ever the devil_   
>  _could do to them._   
>  **lord byron**
> 
> **Summer, 1997**

She left before the sun came up in the horizon, with barely more than a whispered goodbye to Marcel, but there was not much for her to do until René’s arrival, and even when he did arrive, at night, they had to wait until the next morning to begin their work.

During that day, Dorothea and Marcel met at her hotel room for lunch, and dealt with the remnants of Evelyn Binaud’s case. Marcel’s presence was more than enough to terrify the girl, but what really made her talk was the fact he mocked her. There was something to be praised in Marcel’s skill to upset people the appropriate way.

“As if Chevalier would so much as glance at a girl like you.” Dorothea almost laughed when he spoke, bored, dragging his words. Eve blushed, furious, her daemon growling on the ground, by her feet.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

In the end, he got the best of her. Much to Dorothea’s relief, nothing truly had happened between her and Chevalier, nothing shorter than a hand up a skirt once. Marcel scoffed, which made Eve even angrier, and Dorothea was irritated herself. The idea Chevalier had been messing with Eve had rubbed her off the wrong way.

“I think he met some other girl.” Eve finished, and it showed she was hurt over that. _Probably infatuated with the_ nice _man,_ Dorothea thought bitterly.

Astraeus whispered a command in her ear. _Nip it in the bud_ , he said, and he was right. Better to be mean now and get rid of this than to let Eve continue to delude herself. Dorothea didn’t believe Chevalier meant to go any further with Eve, not now that he had already gotten her mother and everything he needed: a silly explanation for a missing Alethiometer, no connections to the heist itself and a flipping of middle fingers at Marcel. That last one she had to agree had some flair to it; not many people screwed Marcel that efficiently and didn’t get punished for it.

“Yes, he did. Your _mother_.” Dorothea spat and Eve looked at her with outrage and shock. “Oh yes, your very modest mother is having an affair with Chevalier. You wanted blackmail material, there you go; not that there is a lot of proof.”

“That’s not true!” Eve’s voice broke halfway through her sentence, and Marcel glanced at Dorothea from his seat, barely an expression to his face. His daemon opened her wings, antsy; they hadn’t expected Dorothea to reveal the affair.

“Yes, it is. Think about it: where was your mother going whenever she left the house in the night while you sneaked out?” Eve was pale now, her eyes watery. She buried her face in her palms, sobbing uncontrollably.

It took them roughly half an hour to quiet Eve down after that, as she began to cry hopelessly, and then they finally sent her home, face swollen from all the crying. Ultimately she seemed better, but deep inside, Dorothea felt sorry for her. Marcel, on the other hand, was most displeased.

“You think it was wise to tell her that?” He hissed when Dorothea stood in front of his chair, towering over him, her arms over her chest. She had a frown that showed him she was deep in her thoughts. Her expression finally changed to relief, or maybe confusion.

“No. But it’s better she knows about that now, so she can stop her silly crush on Chevalier.”

“The man is a dimwit, how can she like him?”

“Well, he is good-looking and charming. And nice. You always underestimate the power of being nice.” Dorothea grinned when he rolled his eyes. “It’s like you’ve learned nothing from your sister.”

“Nice is overrated.” He mumbled, annoyed and she scoffed.

“So you say, but being nice is what made me help you last year.” She made a gesture to boop his nose in a playful and patronising manner, but he slapped her hand away. “How easily you forget what inconveniences you, darling.”

“You helped me because I had something you wanted.” She didn’t like the way he looked at her, but at this point playing pretend seemed rather pointless. She chose not to take him seriously.

“Yes, and I asked you for it, _nicely._ ”

He glanced at her, eyes darting up and down, looking for something. She assumed he was looking for signs of deception, mockery, or he was merely toying with her. It was hard to tell with Marcel.

“You want to recruit the girl.” He said, matter-of-factly. His daemon tilted her head, watching Dorothea intensely. She felt scrutinised to the last atom of her being.

“Nonsense. She’s too young, and I don’t think she has talent for this business.” Dorothea sat across him, on the couch, still bracing herself. She knew he could sense her weakness, the uncertainty of things, but she tried not to worry about that. Nothing was ever certain, so there was nothing to worry about, or so she thought.

“Weren’t you her age when you got recruited?”

“No, because I wasn’t recruited. I conscripted myself.” She chuckled, and he remained impassive, though his eyes glittered with amusement. “They never really wanted my help, but I gave it to them anyway.”

“Forceful, as always.”

“It’s part of my charm, as I’m sure you will agree.” She offered him an indecent smirk, that he didn’t match, but the corners of his mouth twitched just a little. She considered that a victory.

They then agreed not to meet until her heist was done, mostly because it would have been dangerous for them to engage so openly, and he promised he’d have Alma deliver her the Court of Common Order’s schedule in a few days, so Dorothea watched him leave and turned back to plan the rest of her day, preparing to go around town with René the next day.

*******

There was a gentlemanliness in René that would have annoyed Dorothea, if she wasn’t so used to it. Bud Schlesinger also had the habit of claiming that certain places were not meant for her, and sometimes even Malcolm, so she was used to the routine. Open the door for the lady, close the door for the lady, give your coat for the lady… They treated her like she was a fragile doll, ready to be reduced to dust should the wind blow ever so wilder.

“Perhaps you should wait here. This doesn’t look like a place suited for you.” René informed her, like an older brother and she scoffed.

There were many levels of places not suited for her, according to them: sometimes they meant it was not suited for her as a woman, like brothels or men clubs like the one she had spied Marcel on in the past; then there were things not suited for her as a marchioness, like the place they were at now.

They were at the entrance of a very dirty pub, on the outskirts of the city, that they had learned was frequented by all sorts of people, including Zurich citizens who spoke German. Dorothea had dressed in a simple, bland dress and had her hair done modestly, as to draw as little attention as possible.

“I’m sure I can survive a nasty pub, René.” She said, and led the way inside.

It was already packed with people, and it was still six o’clock. They found a table in the smoker area, and sat solemnly while observing the room. There was a lot to see, but all of it mostly meant nothing, casual conversation, a faint sign of music over loud voices. It was a lot to take in, even spread between the four of them; René’s daemon was keen, but no one was sharper than Astraeus. He could tell even the most nuanced of things, and he was fast in what he did. _Except if it’s Marcel_ , she thought amused, drinking her watery beer. _Focus,_ he thought back.

She tried, but it wasn’t easy. The room was a cacophony, and her mind was stuck playing out scenarios where things could go wrong. Everything about what Marcel had asked of her seemed fishy, shady; she could sense the looming feeling that something bad was about to happen, and she had learned to trust this instinct, though it wasn’t always accurate. One way or the other, she knew something was coming and she found no way to prepare for it. If she was younger, she would have welcomed the thrill of it, but a lifetime of bad events had turned her cautious, fearful, hesitant.

“You’re awfully quiet.” René remarked. For a man who had been in such hardship, he was unusually good-humored.

She rather liked that, because everyone she knew was often grumpy or sad or simply too joyful, but René’s good humour was bitter, misplaced. And because he spent a considerable time not speaking at all, he was taking this opportunity to be heard at all moments. Turning him down once was all she needed to establish a cordial relationship with him; Dorothea wished half the men she knew was this polite and respectful. Defeating the Magisterium seemed more likely than that, however.

“I’m thinking about what to do.” She told him, finishing her own beer. They asked the waiter for whiskey this time, hoping it would be better than the beer, and it was. They were using French instead of English.

“How so?”

“You know, this whole thing seems dreadfully unusual. I do not know what to make of it.”

“Well, you’re the one who asked me to come.”

“Indeed, and now I’m thinking that if things go south, I might put you in trouble. I wouldn’t like that.” She stated, matter-of-factly, and her tone amused him. She knew he had caught the scent of something useful, he had stiffened on his chair, but he didn’t interrupt her. His daemon stiffened on her place too, focusing. “It’s neither useful nor in character for me. What happens to your sister if something happens to you?”

“She’s well-cared for. Lives at an all-girls home, has a nice job at a bookstore. We meet regularly.” He sighed. “She may not have the same training I do, but she is tough. She’ll persevere.”

“I should hope so.”

“What about you?” He had a rather endearing grin.

“What about me?” She scoffed. “I’m hardly the last of my kind. Aristocrats have an usual habit of reproducing like rabbits; ironic, I know. Usually they’re the ones saying the working class reproduces without control!”

“Alma depends on you, though.”

“That she does. Her being here keeps me up at night.” Dorothea tried not to shudder in her place. She succeeded, but somehow she felt like René saw through that. “I frankly don’t like it, but she’s well exposed where she is, all the information she has gathered so far is very good, very accurate. Taking her from here would be a blow to a steady flow of intel, and frankly, we need that desperately.”

Alma’s note left in her coat was proof enough of the woman’s usefulness. It disclosed that the CCD had sent three airships to the North, though Alma couldn’t pinpoint exactly where. Dorothea felt like if it had been Svalbard, they would have disclosed it, but that would mean Asriel was responsible for their movements and that worried her. _Asriel is not letting them kill him,_ Astraeus reassured her. She believed that; regardless of what could happen, Asriel wouldn’t go down without a fight. _That_ was what worried her the most.

“You’re very far.” René’s voice brought her back to the pub. He looked at her, worried.

“Apologies. I’ve a lot on my mind at the moment, I get stuck inside, sometimes.” She scratched her forehead, trying to stay grounded. “I’ll recover. Did you see anything interesting?”

“I have. Two men, in the back; they’re speaking in a German dialect.” He nodded slightly and Dorothea gently turned, nonchalantly, trying to see the men. They were tall, dressed in simple garments, strongly built.

“Good. Let’s go talk to them.” She made a gesture to stand, but he held her hand, gently, which made her stop.

“Maybe I should do this alone.” He said, serious, taking his hands from her after she glared at him, irritated. “They don’t look very friendly.”

“I can defend myself.”

“Certainly, but that wouldn’t prevent a fuss, would it?” She opened her mouth but found herself at a loss for words. He had a point. He stood up, his daemon on his arms. She closed her mouth tightly, annoyed. “I’ll talk to them, see what they know. You, stay here and try not to attract too much attention.”

On that front, she succeeded. Dorothea excelled in the art of being unremarkable or so she liked to think. He watched him go, smooth and nonchalant, a little bitter that she had to stay behind.

René’s questions had resulted in a new lead, and they had left the pub around nine, only for René to stop her at a street corner and tell her everything.

“So they know someone who could do dirty jobs like that theft, but they didn’t wanna say who? Why?” Dorothea paced, frustrated. René sighed.

“These are people coming from small cities and villages, working low wages and in dire conditions. It’s a tight community, they suffer a lot--”

“No need to throw the communist manifesto at me, I am aware the situation is dire for them, I sympathize.” Dorothea said impatiently and René grinned at her attitude.

“They’re protecting each other, it’s what I mean.”

“The theft won’t be reported, they’re not in trouble.”

“And your man has agreed with that?”

“He’s not my-- That’s not-- I’m not-- _No_ , he has not, but he won’t report the theft and I won’t tell him about the thieves. He only cares about retrieving what was stolen.” She sighed and Astraeus chirped loudly, frustrated. “Haven’t they really said anything useful?”

“They pointed me in the direction of someone who might tell me more about the men who might have done it.”

“And?” Dorothea raised an eyebrow. There had been a lot of _might_ in that sentence and she didn’t like that. Too unsure, not enough facts.

“And if I convince that person I am trustworthy, they’ll get me in touch with them.”

“So let’s talk to them.” She didn’t even have time to move before he held her arm; Dorothea would’ve slapped him, but all she did was sigh. “Ah, let me guess. Not a place for me.”

He snickered, letting her go.

“Sorry, it’s a brothel. You can’t go.”

“Right, because I’ve never seen a naked woman in my life.” She scoffed, hands on her hips. “Imagined if I owned a mirror.”

René hailed a cab for her, and as she had expected he opened the door for her. O _pen the door for the lady,_ she thought bored, _maybe this is why I like Marcel._

“Women visit brothels too, you know.” She said, annoyed.

“Certainly, but when they do, they attract attention. The last thing we need is that.” He nodded at the car seat; the driver glanced at them, impatient.

“Fine.” She mumbled, clicking her tongue with displeasure. “Report to me in the morning, but not too early. I need some sleep to catch up on.”

“Has your friend been tiring you up?” He jested and she shook her head, slapping his chest before getting in the car.

“Fuck off.”

*******

On the day after, they met around eleven, to discuss his findings. Dorothea felt like René was either very good at gathering information or simply extremely lucky, but whatever it was it had worked well.

He had managed to track down the two men who were likely involved in the theft and even talked to one of them about the whole thing.

“He needed the money, and by the looks of him, I think he was telling the truth.”

“Living here must be quite expensive.” She added and he nodded.

“It seems so.”

“What about the Alethiometer? Who really has it?” She rubbed her neck, taking a look at her notes about the Court of Common Order’s dealings. Nothing major stood out, but when the Magisterium was concerned, nothing major was ever in plain sight.

“They said they dealt with a minor clerk, but they followed him to make sure he wasn’t scamming them, and he went back to the Court of Common Order. Well, I checked the building and it’s _their_ building, but the workers didn’t know which group they belonged to.” René leaned back in his chair. “He was adamant about it, though.”

“Alright. That tracks with the rest of the intel. Chevalier really got greedy in the last few months.” She rubbed her eyes, trying to brush away the tiresome feeling that was looming over her.

“They’re all greedy bastards.”

“Sure they are. All we need now is the schedule, then we can go in there and start looking.”

“Do we know where it might be?” He had a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“Unfortunately, no. I considered going there and pretending to make a social call, but it has been implied to me that Chevalier knows about my… relationship with Delamare. He’d be suspicious, it’s too dangerous.” Dorothea said, trying to ignore René’s grin. “It’s in the building, though, that much is certain. We get the schedule, we can plan how to get in and together we can sweep the place up and find the damn thing.”

They spent the rest of the day discussing logistics and studying the building’s structure. Alma arrived the day after, holding a small folder that she handed to Dorothea eagerly. She seemed anxious, but quietly so.

“I found something else for you.” She said, excited, her daemon observing their exchange by her feet. “I’ve been talking to the other secretaries, and I managed to make Chevalier’s secretary tell me where he might have kept the Alethiometer. She said she thinks it’s on the third floor, because she saw him go up with it, but no one ever came down with it.”

“Well, that narrows it down. How did you make her talk?”

“She’s a bit silly, enjoys having a secret and being able to share it.” She giggled before continuing. “Rumour has it they were sleeping together.”

“Good lord, how does that man have the energy for all these women?” René exclaimed and Alma frowned.

“What do you mean _these_ women? How many women is he seeing?”

“At least four, from what I’ve gathered. Five, if we count his secretary-- I had no idea about her.” Dorothea paged through the folder papers, checking the schedules and the names. Chevalier had a rather erratic schedule, working only five hours a day and leaving the building extensively throughout the day. _No wonder he had time to fuck around, literally_ , Dorothea thought. “At least three of these women are married. This won’t end well.”

“Delamare is furious with him. I’ve never seen him so irritated.” Alma added, glancing at Dorothea with curiosity. “The whole atmosphere has been, well, uncomfortable.”

“You’re not thinking of changing employers, are you?” René mocked her from his place on the couch, and Alma clicked her tongue and told him to shut up.

“No.” Alma laughed. “I prefer Delamare. He’s cold and distant, barely spares me a glance. That helps.” She meant it helped with her daemon situation, as the less attention she got the better, but she didn’t have to say it out loud to be understood.

“Well, you should be extra careful, regardless. I’ll have a gun arranged for you, just in case. Someone will drop by and contact you, someone Marcel won’t recognise.” Dorothea sighed, seeing Alma to the door. “Marcel is very clever, don’t let your guard down around him. Ever. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do.” She nodded, confidently. There was immense emotional intelligence in Alma, something Dorothea envied. “He spoke of you, yesterday.”

“Not very highly, I imagine.”

“Well, he says you’re naive.” Alma frowned, watching Dorothea carefully. Dorothea smiled, amused.

“You disagree.”

“Yes. He mistakes naivete with idealism. A common mistake, made by a common man, I’d say.” She grinned and Dorothea laughed, and patted her shoulder gently.

“Before you go: that note you left for me-- Do you have any news?”

“Only that Mrs. Coulter seems to have requested the zeppelins.” Alma frowned, watching Dorothea’s expression sour suddenly, then change into sheer confusion.

“ _What?_ Why? Why would she do that?”

“I couldn’t say, but the ships were headed North and rumour has it she had a project going on there.” Alma kissed Dorothea goodbye. “Maybe that’s why.”

Dorothea stood by the door, watching Alma leave, but not quite paying attention. Her mind was drifting, pondering, measuring the information she just got. The idea Marisa had enough influence to acquire military zeppelins unnerved her, as it should. It meant her reach was far bigger than she had anticipated, and more importantly, it meant Marisa was on her way to deal with Asriel. No other explanation for that.

“Something wrong?”René asked from the couch, frowning, his daemon peering at Dorothea and Astraeus with cautious curiosity.

She turned and smiled, closing the door and going back to him and the folders and papers they were studying.

“No. Everything is fine.” She lied through her teeth.

*******

Dorothea and René met at midnight, under a tree, three days later, on the sidewalk across the building that housed the Court of Common Order. It was a shorter building than _La Maison Juste_ , austere but modern in comparison, and Dorothea made a humming sound of laughter, when she began to think how Magisterium officials were often arguing over office sizes and so on. The idea of Marcel and Chevalier arguing about whose building was bigger was nagging at her mind, amusing her, and René was amused by her reaction.

“You’re in a good mood.” He said, and she cleared her throat. “Seems a rare thing for you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“It happens, occasionally.” She sighed. The whole building was dark and empty, even the streets were silent. “Are you ready? We should get going.”

“Window or door?”

“Help me climb that roof, and wait for me in the alley between the buildings. I’ll open a window on the first floor once I’m in. Can you climb that alone?” She turned to face him, and he looked like he had been insulted.

“Of course. Come on!”

She climbed with his help to the second building. The moon was being unhelpful, bright as ever, making every detail visible, but lucky for them, it was too late in the night for any pedestrians to be walking by. She walked up until their targeted building. She was just below the level of a round window that Dorothea knew should be unlocked. These windows turned on their axis, and they were big enough that she could pass through; all she needed to do was jump and climb there, and slide through it.

The gap between the buildings was small, but she almost didn’t make it, her feet slipping up. René barely reacted, watching her from below; his spy training gave him a lot of backbone and not much took him by surprise.

Astraeus went inside first, and with a bit of effort she slid through the window and made it inside.

Everything was dark, pitch black, except for the places where the windows faced in that attic-like place. The light that got inside was silvery, milky, detailing the silhouette of the desks and chair and shelves with precision. She carefully walked downstairs, and opened a window on the first floor, where René was already on his way, climbing awkwardly. She helped him inside, grabbing him by his hand.

“That was tough.” He mumbled, quietly, his daemon jumping off his pocket to the floor, looking for the scent of something. “You break and enter often, Lady Eilhart?”

Her smile was wasted on him, because it was too dark for him to see.

“Not nowadays, but I used to do this a lot a few years ago.” She glanced around, trying to let her eyes get used to the dark ambience. “Come on, we need to search upstairs.”

Making their way back, quietly, Dorothea began searching inside the desks, while René looked for something on the shelves. They went on for about ten minutes, before her companion mumbled something in Russian.

“What is it?” She tiptoed towards him, on a corner brightly lit by the moon. He was kneeling before a big metal box. _A safe_ , Astraeus told her.

“Maybe it’s in here.”

“Hm, maybe. But I doubt it. Chevalier is arrogant and has a twisted sense of humour. He wouldn’t have kept it in the same place he stole the thing from.” She touched the safe, unsure, but the cold touch made her realise her reasoning seemed right. “Can you open it?”

“Would take a lot of time, and the other option is too noisy.”

“How noisy?”

“Very much. We could be heard from outside, I’d have to break it open.” He tapped the safe, a faint metallic sound echoing.

“Nevermind then, we’ll leave it for last.”

They went back to searching the easy spots, every corner of a shelf and desk, every place they could think of. While searching, methodically and almost mindlessly, Dorothea began to think about Marcel and how to proceed once - and if! - they found the Alethiometer. Giving it back seemed insane, but she didn’t know what she could do; if she stole it, she wouldn’t have a place to return. Marcel could send an army after her, and when she was arrested - because he had been right, she couldn’t outrun the Guard for long - she would place everyone at risk. Alma, Oakley Street, Asriel…

René walked by, and realising she was leaning her head against the shelf, he patted her shoulder gently.

“You’ll work something out.” He said, and went on before she could say anything. “You’re resourceful.”

Dorothea couldn’t tell how long they spent on that search, but she guessed it was over an hour, at least. The sky remained impassive, and the moon kept on shining, bright and scandalous. She was about to give up when René finally exclaimed, although quietly.

“I think I’ve got it!”

He opened a heavy and large book and showed her the small square oak box inside. She opened it under the moonlight, and the Alethiometer glittered, its golden glow shining shyly under the light source.

“Great job!” She touched his arm and turned away, examining the room. It didn’t seem super messed up, so perhaps they could get away unscathed from this petty crime. She pondered what Nugent would say if he learned she had done a heist to a Magisterium building. The thought landed between pride and a two-hour long screaming session about responsibility and her lack of it.

René put the small box in his pocket and placed the book where he had found it. Together, they made their way to the first floor, where they could leave through the window again. Dorothea was watching René open the window when she felt tense. Astraeus chirped quietly. She was sure she had heard something, and she glanced around, but nothing was happening. She watched as René climbed over the window, gripping at the windowsill, ready to jump off.

“Be careful.” She whispered, while he began to make his way down.

She was focused on watching his lithe movements, then she put one knee on the windowsill, preparing to descend as well. Then, someone grabbed her from behind.

She cried out loud, at first, surprised by the presence of someone who shouldn’t have been there. Marcel’s schedule had been clear that the building would have been empty at that hour. Then, after she recovered her senses, she pushed against her attacker, sending them away against the desk.

It was a man, though in the dark she could scarcely see his face. His daemon was somewhere, but neither she nor Astraeus could tell where. The man came at her, and she dodged him, kicking the back of his knee, and he screamed from the pain. She reached inside her coat for her gun, and pointed at him, but she was shaking from the blow he managed to hit against her head. The man held the gun by the barrel, lowering it in a struggle, while Dorothea gritted her teeth. She used her own head to hit his, blood filling her mouth as she wounded his nose and dazzled him. He wouldn’t let go of the gun, however, so she pushed him, trying to free her weapon at all costs.

She needed to buy enough time so she could jump off the window, but her attacker was determined not to let her go. She kicked and pulled and pushed, trying to free her gun from his hands, but he kept pushing it this side or that side, anywhere but letting it aim at him. His scent was a mixture of alcohol, cigar and a delicious cologne, all mixed with the sweat and blood from his struggle with Dorothea.

Dorothea finally pulled the trigger. It hit the ceiling, as he pushed the gun away, and because of the strength of the shot, she lost her balance and he pushed her against the nearby desk, lying her down, pushing the gun against her own head. She struggled to get up, but he was stronger and she was getting tired, his hands pushing her own gun against her.

Astraeus finally found his daemon, then, a lemur jumping from desk to desk, and he flew straight for the daemon, furiously. The surprise and pain once Astraeus pecked at the lemur’s throat threw the man off just enough that Dorothea took control of her gun again, and her finger pressed the trigger before she could think it through. One, two shots. She could smell the gunpowder as the man’s weight loosened over her and he fell to the floor.

“No, no.” Dorothea mumbled, kneeling over the man on the floor. Moonlight shone over his face and she recognised him, almost immediately, almost instinctively. “No, it can’t be.”

Chevalier coughed up blood, his hands trying to soothe the wounds in his stomach and chest. Astraeus landed on Dorothea’s shoulder as she dropped the gun and used her own hands to try and stop the bleeding. It was slick, wet, warm; it made her sick but her mind could barely process that.

“We need to leave!” Astraeus said, urgently. She heard another noise but she didn’t acknowledge it. There was also the faintest sound of a police siren arriving, very far. “He must have called the police, we need to go, Thea!”

She kept pressing the wound in his stomach, in a frenzy, her body shaking out of despair and fear and adrenaline, splattering blood everywhere. She almost died; she killed a man. She killed a man _again._ Dorothea could barely feel her own legs.

“Stay with me!” She mumbled, incoherently, slapping Chevalier’s face, pressing the wound harder. Her bloodied hand left a mark on his cheek with his own blood. “Please, don’t die! Don’t die, don’t die!”

“Thea, we need to leave! Now!” Astraeus begged her, flying around her head, pulling her hair in an attempt to make her come to him, but she kept her place by Chevalier’s side.

“I can’t leave him here!” She pleaded.

“He’s dead! Look! His daemon is gone!” Astraeus chirped, and she pulled her hands away and realised he was right. The daemon was gone, and Chevalier looked frozen in time, without breath or heartbeat or any movement of any kind. She sobbed, without realising, then a pair of strong hands pulled her up.

The noise she didn’t acknowledge earlier had been René going back through the window. He took her in his arms, like a dead weight, and she barely could stand.

“The police are coming, I can hear them.” He said, taking the gun from the floor. He grabbed her by the elbow. “We oughta go, now.”

“I can’t-- him--”

“He almost killed you!” René’s rough voice shook her out of her own hallucination. “We need to go, now!”

He helped her through the window, which was difficult, but she recovered enough that she could get down on her own. When they were both down, he grabbed her and as the police stopped by the building, they disappeared into the night.


	20. where once we walked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, here's the update! i hope you like it and it's not too corny. i did have to go back and add Summer, 1997 on the previous chapter and I'm sure the timeline is confusing, but I'm currently writing this and editing previous chapters, so I'll fix that as I do the latter.

> _we can kiss over the corpse until sunrise,_   
>  _but we still have to dispose of the body._   
>  **yves olade**   
>    
> 

Dorothea was stuck in a hysteria, being half dragged by René to his hotel room, as there was no way to go back to hers without being noticed. She was covered in blood, hands and blouse and chin, and she looked disheveled enough that anyone would be curious at first sight.

His hotel room was in a poorer neighborhood, more like a small room for rent than a hotel per se, very discreet and quiet, and it was so late they managed to sneak in without being observed. He sat her on his bed, as she shook uncontrollably and assessed the situation with the efficient air of a trained man. He’d seen people in shock from killing before; he’d endured it a few times in his youth and he knew there wasn’t much to be done except wait for her to calm down. He focused on the blood instead, going to his bathroom and searching for a sponge and soap.

“I’ll start with your hands.” He said in a casual, soothing tone. Dorothea didn’t seem super aware of her surroundings, but even so, René told her everything he was about to do. He cleaned her hands, carefully, a little roughly though; then he moved to her arms and finally to her chin.

His daemon soothed Astraeus with words and gentle touches, while René helped Dorothea out of her blouse. The blood had soaked through the fabric, and it stained her stomach. He cleaned there, as respectfully as he could, and after he was done, he found the smallest shirt he had and helped her wear it. When she snapped out of her stupor, all she would have to do is tuck the shirt in her skirt and she’d be good to go.

“What happened back there?” He asked, helping her drink her water. She was calming down, at last. Seeing her so distressed unnerved him; she didn’t strike him as a woman easily distraught.

“He came out of nowhere.” She managed to say. “I tried to defend myself, but I ended up firing the gun.” Her eyes widened as she remembered her gun. “The gun! I think I left it there!”

René handed her the gun he had picked up earlier and she sighed with deep relief and a mixture of horror. She seemed in a state of dreaming, or simply out of herself. Her daemon was fluttering, inconsistently, as if he had been drugged. They both seemed almost whimsical, drunk in sorrows.

“I should go home.” She said, suddenly and randomly.

“No. You need to rest, I’ll find something for you to eat.” He tapped at her knee and for a moment her eyes were foggy, clouded. She leaned her body forward, her elbow on her knee, her forehead being held against the back of her hand. She rubbed her eyes. He sensed the dread in her, it was overwhelming.

“I can’t believe I killed him.” She mumbled, her voice muffled.

“It was an accident. You couldn’t have known he would be there, could you?” René cleared his throat when she looked up, her eyes meeting his in something that seemed like a shockwave of enlightenment. She had thought of something distressing, because her eyes were wide and Astraeus chirped loudly, distressed.

“That doesn’t make him less dead.” She finally said.

“No, but it shows that you’re not as bad a person as you’re thinking you are. It was him or you, and he intended to hurt you, so it was justified.”

“That’s severely pragmatic.”

“Indeed. Pragmatism is what keeps the world running. Lie down. You need to rest, the world will be there in the morning for you to save it or whatever.”

She tried but she couldn’t quite sleep, her body still seething with adrenaline and a sense of horror she couldn’t explain. She had killed before, this wasn’t new, but it felt different, sour in a way she couldn’t describe but she felt it clearly through every bone. It was the feeling of failure.

She woke up after a distraught one hour nap, and instructed René to visit her hotel in the morning, once she would have further instructions for him. He was reluctant to let her go, a frown on his forehead, his daemon pleading for them to stay a little longer, but there was no denying Dorothea in that state, so he just watched her walk away from his window. She was a blur against the dark night, tucked on a coat to disguise her odd shirt.

Dorothea made what could only be described as a walk of shame back to her apartment. She took a bath, as long as she could manage and wrapped herself in clean clothes and sat by the phone. The rest of her night and the majority of the morning she spent making phone calls to several different people across Geneva and in London.

The first call she made was to Nugent, and he didn’t pick up, but she left a message with his butler informing him of unusual circumstances in Geneva. It was the right thing to do, she knew, concerning the agency; if they could arrest her for the man’s murder, Oakley Street needed to be ahead of the news.

After that, she proceeded to call police offices, politicians, and members of the Church, claiming to have heard about the death of a young member in the middle of the night. She had made a wild guess that worked, as journalists were already hurrying to dig anything on that business, and by the early morning paper, news of Chevalier’s death was all over the city. A failed breaking and entering, they were calling it, and Dorothea would have laughed, if the death of that idiotic man hadn’t been her fault. She could still hear the noises he made while choking on his own blood; she closed her eyes, her hands resting on the telephone, cold and damp in that wet weather.

“It was self-defense.” Astraeus whispered to her, but she didn’t acknowledge him, instead calling friends in Oakley Street and passing on messages and trying to get a sense of what to do. She needed a purpose, she had always required that to exist outside the boundaries that had been made for her, but she was struggling with finding a purpose, her mind straining all the possible scenarios, all of them bad. It wasn’t the fear of prison that tormented her, but the label of “murderer” on the papers.

Dorothea received a phone call from Nugent, around ten. He listened to her story, patiently, asking pertinent and precise questions, not once dismissing her or her feelings or treating her like she had committed such a bad deed. But that was no comfort; Nugent was a ruthless man, and one less Magisterium official was to him a blessing, not a curse.

“I need you back in London, as fast as you can.” He said, his voice stern. Dorothea stuttered.

“I’m on my way, but I still have to finish some business here.”

“No, Dorothea. We need you _now._ ” He sighed, his breath echoing as he had breathed on the speaker. She waited for his voice to ressurface. “It’s Godwin. She’s on her way back to England.”

He didn’t sound happy, which alarmed her.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” There was another pause, and she knew he was pondering what and how to say what he had to say. Nugent _never_ hesitated.

“The fever, it damaged her, but she’s well and she’ll live or so the doctor says. They’ve cleared her for travel, coming from New France, last evening. She should be arriving here soon.” He swallowed, so hard she heard the sound. The phone was trembling in her fingers, so she gripped it tighter and with both hands.

“But?” She added for him; he hummed, half amused and half in sorrow. That seemed like a theme that day.

“But her boy, he didn’t make it. Rumour has it she is in a bad, bad shape. She’ll need you. We need you here, now, not in Geneva.”

“I’ll be on my way, as soon as tomorrow, I promise, but I have to--”

They argued, while Dorothea insisted she still had to stay and he commanded she returned quickly. She couldn’t take the harsh truths he spoke, so she turned the phone off on his mid-speech. She rubbed her eyes, and tried to cry, but the tears were failing her. Astraeus stroked her cheek with his head.

By lunchtime, René dropped by, concerned, and she took a quick look at the box he had brought with him. Such a small thing, responsible for so much mayhem; it was hard to see how that was possible. She handed him a note, in a cream envelope, her fingers now seeming steadier than before.

“You are to leave this at _La Maison Juste._ Do not interact with Alma, Marcel may become suspicious.” She sighed, biting her tongue when she said Marcel’s name, observing while he put the note in his pocket. Then she looked inside her purse for money and handed it to him, a considerable amount. “Hand him the note and the box. Do not answer any of his questions, speak to him as little as you can. When you’re done, put on your best clothes and take the first train to Paris. First-class. They will be doing rounds on the trains, but they don’t bother first-class people. You should be safe enough, so long as you keep a low profile. Resume your work as usual once you’re home.”

“What about you?” His voice showed his concern; Dorothea wished he wouldn’t be so kind. She didn’t think she deserved it.

“Me? I’ll be leaving tomorrow night, if I’m lucky, but I have to do some things before I go.” She pressed the space between her eyes, closing them tight, and then looking at him, dizzy. “I fucked up, royally so, this time. I need to make things right, in some way. He had a family who relied on him, I can’t just… I can’t just leave them be.”

He nodded and rested his hand on her shoulder, before leaving her.

“Well, you be careful. I have the strange feeling this isn’t the end of this crisis.”

***

In the distance, a group of people gathered around a grave, tears and prayers could be heard albeit muffled by the crisp summer air, arriving early. Marcel’s eyes, however, didn’t linger over the group, but instead he searched the area nearby for any signs of Dorothea. He found her standing by a tall tree, slightly concealing herself behind it, her face turned to the group, her shimmery daemon perched on her shoulder, facing the same direction. He almost missed her, as her skill to keep herself nearly invisible was considerable, and she was wearing a summer dress with short sleeves in a pastel pink colour, so pale she blended well in the environment, except for her dark hair. She had it loose this morning, he noticed.

“Maybe she didn’t have time to have it done.” His daemon suggested, and he agreed. Dorothea wasn’t vain, but she lived and socialised with vain people, so a carelessness of that type could only mean something was off.

Dorothea was a tall woman, rather imposing when she wanted to be, but that day Marcel saw her as puny, meek. It made him uncomfortable, because she felt like a total stranger. As he approached her, slowly, he observed her tense stance, her ankles joined, her slouched shoulders, like a child that had done wrong. It was easy to forget she was older than he was, even if just for a few years, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why that was a thing, but ultimately he didn’t care.

He got close enough that his chest brushed against her back, and she moved, uncomfortable with his presence, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t have to, because Astraeus had already warned her about him. Marcel made sure he was behind the tree as well, in case anyone bothered looking at them.

“Why are you here?” She whispered, her voice breaking. Leaning over her shoulder, sending Astraeus flying to her head to avoid being touched, Marcel could see she had been crying, a faint trail of tears beginning to dry in the crisp, hot weather.

“We have unfinished business.” His lips brushed against her earlobe, and that made her take a step away from him, brushing the spot he touched with her finger, then bracing herself, her hands on her elbows. He noticed how she had her eyes locked on the funeral scene.

“My business with you is concluded. Hasn’t my associate given you the alethiometer?” She hissed through her teeth, and he scoffed. His daemon cooed softly at Astraeus, who simply chirped in distress. They were torn, he realised, a lot of arguments had happened between them.

“He has, alongside your note.” Marcel used one of his arms as support against the tree, looming behind her. “ _I don’t want to see you again_ , it said. That’s not a decision you make on your own.”

She scoffed, but still refused to turn and look at him.

“It certainly is.”

“That man you sent, are you sleeping with him?” He knew she was getting irritated because she fidgeted on her spot, her back moving up and down faintly against his chest.

“I don’t ask you if every person you know is your lover, so why must you ask that of me?” She sighed. “He is an associate. You need not know more than that. The job is done, and now I’m asking you to leave me alone. Leave, while I’m still just _asking_.”

“I’m not leaving until we settle--” He reached for her elbow, but she moved away, taking a step forward, pressing herself against the tree.

“There is nothing to settle. It’s over. You have the bloody thing, now leave me alone.” She hissed, quietly.

She hit a nerve by interrupting him and acting like he didn’t matter. His daemon wanted him to drop the matter and walk away, but he refused.

“What happened there, Dorothea?” He asked in her ear again, observing her trance with Chevalier’s funeral. It seemed to be affecting her in the strangest ways.

She shook her head, hopeless, lacking the words to explain what he wanted to know. He knew she had killed him, no one else could have done it; Marcel just couldn’t understand why on Earth she was so worked up about it. It wasn’t even her first time and she had no love for Magisterium people; that was senseless to him.

Her refusal to answer him was irritating, so he reached for her hair and grabbed it tight. Astraeus protested, chirping angrily but Dorothea barely reacted, merely letting out a quiet gasp, half a sob. A woman cried loudly amongst the funeral people, leaning against a tall and plain looking girl, who also had tears in their eyes. The sun was hot against them, but no one seemed to care or notice: death was indeed rather cold.

“Dorothea--”

“You _knew_ he was there.” She spat, finally turning her head slightly so she could side eye him. He softened his grip on her hair, flinching under the gaze for the second and last time ever in his life. She had never looked at him with such coldness.

“I didn’t.” He whispered back.

“How could you not?” She hissed, fidgeting. Astraeus said something to her in German, and Marcel understood very little of it, which had been their intention all along. It was something about letting go. She clearly ignored his advice. “You gave me the schedule, you would have known!”

“I didn’t and I have no reason to lie. It wasn’t in my best interest to get you caught.”

“That’s what you say - it’s what you _always_ say - but your word means less and less to me with every deceit you commit.” She scratched the tree, anxious. He noticed one of her nails had broken almost at the flesh. “How could you do this to me, Marcel?”

“I didn’t plan this. This is typical of you, accusing me without a shred of proof!” He pulled her tight against him again and this time she protested, but quietly. “You’re never satisfied. That letter you sent me some months ago, claiming I killed the commissioner--”

“You did! Not by your own hand, but you arranged it.”

“I did not. What could I possibly gain from killing a policeman in England?” He scoffed, and he could tell she was confused by the way she moved in her place. Unsure, doubtful. She didn’t believe him and it was no longer amusing, but irritating. “But you didn’t need proof. You _knew_ it was me, it must have been, of course! Who else?”

“Madame Laurent believed it as well--”

“You took that harlot’s word as adamant truth. She was terrified I was gonna take over her spy ring and she did something silly. You were even sillier. I expected you to be better than that.” He turned her to face him and she had that scorned look in her eyes, struggling against his hands on her elbows. She could have kicked him away, he knew her strength and agility, despite never having seen her in action. She could pin him down in bed, so it wasn’t far fetched to think she could do it there as well and rather efficiently. She didn’t do it, though. “It was outrageous, that letter, making such bold claims on my behalf. Do you think I’m _that_ sloppy? That’s how you say, right, sloppy? Someone with a total lack of decorum or finesse. You wouldn’t have seen it if I had chosen that course of action!”

“You aim to tell me it was a coincidence, that’s it?”

“It could be, and if it was arranged it certainly wasn’t by me. I had better things to do than to mess with _your_ business.”

“We had a deal.” She blew the air out of her lungs.

“We did, and I gave as much fucks about it as you did. You were never following through with your end and neither was I.” He scoffed at her indignant gaze. “That was fun, foreplay if you like. It meant nothing but you clearly didn’t know that.”

“You want me to believe that it was all a coincidence?”

“I don’t know if it was, it could have been, but if someone had him killed, it wasn’t me.” He spoke, slowly, and nodded at the coffin being lowered in the distance and let her go. She turned her back to it again, bracing herself. There were finger marks where he had held her just then. “And neither did I know about Chevalier.”

“Then why was he there?” She turned back to Marcel, arms crossed over her chest. “You _had_ one job, Marcel. One. To give me a clear schedule.”

“He had a prostitute with him, from what I’ve learned. She ran away when they heard noises on the upper floor - you, I imagine - and he went to check. The police found her and questioned her earlier today. She didn’t see anything.” He crossed his arms over his chest when Dorothea avoided his eyes, looking nothing like the woman he knew. It was pathetic, almost. “I didn’t know he was there, that is the truth.”

“And his death doesn’t benefit you, eh?”

“Oh, it does, but that is a coincidence. A true coincidence and you’re part of it.” She shook her head and he resisted the urge to shake her up and have her snap out of her melancholia.

She let go of her own grip, her fingers playing with the fabric of her dress now, aimlessly.

“The police have found fingerprints on the scene, but that has been dealt with. It should not prove a problem.”

“Of course.” She scoffed, disgusted.

“I am not pleased with your attitude. The least you could do is show me some gratitude. I just saved your neck.”

“Well, _thank you_ , then and fuck off.” Astraeus recoiled when the owl cooed threateningly at him, but Dorothea didn’t mind them at all. She was watching as the priest was concluding the ceremony. “I wouldn’t need saving if it weren’t for you and your stupid schemes.”

He considered retorting, but he didn’t think it would amount to anything. She seemed unreachable to him, confused. Instead, he felt the urge to put her in her place, taunt her and despite his owl’s protest, he went for it like a little indulgence. He leaned against her, close enough to her ear that when he spoke his lips brushed against her skin; he grabbed her elbow to keep her from moving. Dorothea stiffened.

“Funny thing, I hear Chevalier’s family received a considerable sum this morning.” She tried to get away, but he grabbed both her elbows and held her in place. Her whole body moved against his when she took a deep breath. “It’s strange, because from what I had heard, he didn’t exactly have a lot of money. He was a bit of a spender, liked the ’fine things in life’, as I’ve been told before.”

“If you have a point--” She began, hissing, but he pulled her arms to stop her.

“That’s your money. Don’t deny, I know it is. Only you would be that foolish and quite generous.” He noticed her chin quivering, and Astraeus chirped loudly, furious, distressed. He went for the owl, who evaded him gracefully and changed her place on Marcel’s shoulders.

“They relied on him for help.” Dorothea mumbled, hopeless and weak.

“His help is unavailable now. How long do you think that money will last?” Marcel tightened his grip on her arms, and she winced and tried to get away. Astraeus went for the owl again, furious, and was evaded once again, except this time the owl grabbed him and pressed him against one of the tree branches. Dorothea weaseled until he turned her to face him, holding her by her wrists. “How long do you think they’ll pull through on their own? They’ll never have justice, the police will never catch _you_. How does that make you feel?”

“Take your hands off me.” She hissed the words, slowly, gritting her teeth close to his face. Marcel shoved her hands away, resting his hands on his hips, watching her as she brushed the spots where he had held her. He brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead, there was sweat running down his neck. Hot weather clearly didn’t suit him. “You’re a horrible man and I don’t want to see you ever, ever again.”

“Me?” He scoffed. “You killed a man and paid for the damage. I’m curious, how much a life is worth to a marchioness, Dorothea?”

She stared at him, dark eyes, her jaw tense because she was biting her tongue. They looked at each other for a minute or so and Marcel was beginning to grin when she hit him, open palm, a slap loud enough that it seemed to echo through the cemetery. It didn’t, but it felt like it had.

It happened so fast and intensely, he barely had time to react, but the pain came and it continued to hurt for the rest of the day. He didn’t dignify her with an answer, or a word, instead touching faintly the cheek she had slapped him on, and watching her with watery eyes.

“You’re a fucking monster.” She spat at his feet and walked away, in a hurry, her dress clinging to her body as her daemon followed close.

Marcel stood in place for a moment, brushing his cheek, his daemon on his shoulder. She didn’t say it openly, but he could sense her thoughts of “I told you so.” They began to walk back to their car; for some reason he had a grin on his lips.

“You’re enjoying this.” She said, and Marcel hummed, though it was hard to tell if it was of amusement or agreement or disagreement.

“You shouldn’t have taunted her.” His daemon went on, brushing her head against his sore cheek.

“She took me by surprise, that’s all. She has a heavy hand.” His fingers brushed on the spot and then he stroked his daemon’s head. “Well, that’s a shame. I rather liked her, she was useful.”

“I disagree. It was time you broke this… this affair off. She distracted you.”

“She was a good contact.” He got in the car, and his daemon took her place at the panel, watching him. He could see Dorothea waiting for her cab a little ahead, bracing herself, head down. He could scarcely believe such a meek woman could do such damage, or even possess such an intelligence. If not for his throbbing cheek, he wouldn’t have believed it at all, but that had been a lesson that taught him much. “You just didn’t like her.”

“Classless girl.” His daemon scowled in the best way she could. Marcel hummed, amused. His face was getting numb. “Where are we going?”

“Work, where else?”

“Her entire hand is stamped on your cheek. We should put ice on it. Alma will cope just fine for the rest of the day.” They drove by Dorothea, and Marcel locked eyes with her for what it felt like the last time. The next time he saw her, she was like another person altogether. He almost crashed against another car, stopping at the last minute. His owl cooed softly, amused and irritated at the same time, at his foolishness. “Boyish mistake. See? You’re better off without her. That woman could be the death of you.”

“Is that so?” He shook his head, trying to send the numb sensation away. “How much do you think she would pay maman for my life?”

***

Dorothea and Eve arrived in London a day and a half later, by zeppelin. After a long conversation with Binaud, Dorothea had managed to convince him to let Eve spend the rest of the summer in England with her younger cousin, Georgia, especially now that Chevalier was dead. Eve wept through the whole trip, and Dorothea did her best to comfort her, though she could barely do more than say a few empty words. She wanted nothing more than to go home, where the word safe still meant something, but she found nothing but chaos.

Summer was wet and grey in England, and they arrived after changing into lighter clothes. Dorothea tried to be more cheerful, for Eve’s sake, but they both stood baffled as they made their way through the passengers at Zeppelin Landing Zone in London.

“Is it always this busy?” Eve was marvelled, but Dorothea looked around, confused.

“It’s busy, but not like this.”

While some people were disembarking, across the whole aistrip she could see a dozen zeppelins, of military status, all being boarded by soldiers wearing dark uniforms. Closer to their ship, was a battalion of special forces, wearing blue; English soldiers, she knew, not unlike the black uniforms, who were issued by the Ministry of Theology. They were small in number, no more than ten, which intrigued Dorothea even more. They weren’t issued in small numbers like that, unless it was a diplomatic issue.

“What’s all that?” Eve asked, dizzy, but Dorothea instinctively grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the exiting gate.

They came out in a pavilion filled with people and chaos was a general word for it. Groups were coming and going fast, policemen trying to keep order, CCD arresting people, other church entities moving this way and that… Dorothea took a deep breath. Something was clearly wrong.

Someone grabbed her elbow, and while her first instinct was to fight back, she hesitated after the man whispered in her ear.

“Keep smiling, keep walking. Don’t act suspicious.” Oscar Gallagher guided her through the crowd, while she guided Eve who was completely baffled with everything.

“What is happening, Oscar?” Dorothea whispered back, she looked around, casually, but it was hard to tell any suspicious activity from that whole crowd. “We have luggage to fetch--”

“My constable will do that for you, don’t worry. We need to get you and your companion to a safe place as soon as possible.” He finally managed to get them through the exit, smiling congenially for the security guards, arriving at the parking lot, which also was in chaos, a queue of cars trying to leave at the same time. There was a cacophony of horn sounds, Dorothea observed as Eve covered her ears, her daemon placing his paws over his own ears too.

“Oscar--” She began, but Oscar shook his head.

“I’ll explain, but we need to get you out of here, now.”

“Why? What happened?” She couldn’t help but think that her crime had been discovered, maybe Marcel had told on her, maybe something else had happened. She couldn’t cope with thinking about Marcel every minute, especially thinking he would betray her like that, so she emptied her head quickly.

Oscar opened the door for Eve, but Dorothea put her arm in front of Eve, blocking her entrance. The girl looked between the policeman and the woman, confused. Oscar sighed, exhausted.

“Get in the car!” He barked.

“No fucking way! Not until you tell me what the fuck is happening.” Dorothea met his eyes, furious. She was beginning to feel panic. Eve looked at her, after the display of bad words, with horror and delight. This was a new world for her, entirely; Dorothea was glad at least someone was having a good time and, as usual, it wasn’t her.

“Get in the car and I’ll tell you.” He realised Dorothea wasn’t giving in, so he pulled her arm away and gestured for Eve to get in. “Miss, please, get in the car.”

“Don’t you move, Eve!” Dorothea looked at Oscar, narrowing her eyes. “I can do this all day, so either you tell me, or we aren’t going anywhere with you.”

“I am trying to help you, why won’t you let me?”

“Because trusting people is for fools, Oscar, especially policemen, and especially when the entire landing zone is filled with authorities. Now, start talking, or I’ll tackle you and cause a scandal.”

Oscar sighed and rubbed his eyes, clearly a man who hadn’t slept for the past twenty-four hours. Dorothea usually would have felt bad for him, but she was still sour over her stay in Geneva, and Chevalier’s death, and Marcel’s attitude and the fact everyone she knew expected so much from her, that she just didn’t care at all for that man at that particular moment.

“It’s Asriel, Dorothea.” Oscar mumbled and Dorothea relaxed her whole body, a cold feeling spreading through her stomach. Astraeus chirped, hopeless, distressed, fearful. Oscar took advantage of her distraction to help Eve get in the car. “He has done something in the North. The Magisterium has declared _war_ on him.”


	21. the descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here's the update, I hope you enjoy!  
>  **A few disclaimers:**  
>  1) This chapter features Glenys Godwin and talks a bit about her disease, which for some wild reason, I ended up writing in a way that is very reminiscent of COVID. So, if you're uncomfortable reading this, you might want to speak the early paragraphs of section three (***);  
> 2) Originally, I planned on handing Oakley Street to Godwin as soon as the events of TSK happened, however I forgot she only becomes director - canonically, at least - after Nugent's death, which happens in TSC. So, I just reworked her into becoming his understudy, I guess lmao Sorry about that.
> 
> This chapter - and anything forward - happens during the events of **The Subtle Knife**

_your worst sin is that you have destroyed_   
_and betrayed yourself for nothing_   
**fyodor dostoevsky**

“Where exactly are you taking us?” Dorothea scowled, her hand resting on the car door, glancing at Oscar while he drove, fast but not illegally fast, across the city.

“The Yard.” He mumbled, his daemon on the backseat with Evelyn and her own dog daemon, both trying hard not to touch each other. Cars were big enough for people and their daemons, except Oscar’s daemon was unusually large. “I have to call Schlesinger.”

“Why?” Dorothea insisted, snappy in her attitude, but Oscar didn’t mind her. He was used to that sort of attitude. In the back, Eve was asking: “Who’s Schlesinger?”

“He wants to know about your arrival, asked me to do so. So has Nugent.” Oscar threw his cigarette out the window when Dorothea scoffed.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” He said, almost insulted, then side-eyed her, worried and sighed when he met her gaze. “But... I also need to log in that I have you in my custody.” She smirked, an unpleasant smile of someone who didn’t want to be right. “You’re in danger, Dorothea, and that makes you my responsibility. Think about that before you decide to try and evade me, _please_.”

“Why?” She knew what he meant, but she was tense and her words were becoming sour by the minute. Astraeus tugged at her hair, to stop her, but that was to no avail. “I mean, what is going on?”

“I told you, Asriel--”

“I know, I _know_ , but that doesn’t explain why _I_ am at risk!” She saw that they were getting closer to the building, so Dorothea turned on her seat and checked on Eve. She seemed worried and excited, all her sadness for Chevalier’s death vanishing in the midst of the excitement coming their way. “I didn’t help him do, well, whatever he has done now. God, I can’t catch a fucking break!”

“You’re his _friend_ , Dorothea. The CCD has been arresting anyone who’s so much as sneezed in the same room as him.” They made their way inside, Evelyn clinging to Dorothea’s arm like a child overwhelmed with the greatness of the world. “Rumour has it, the research that he based his work on was yours.”

“Nonsense.” She said, automatically. After Marcel, she was sort of ready to dismiss that claim with a lot more confidence.

Her mind was racing, pondering what to do next. She had no idea what Asriel wanted to do or had done, she could only hope that he could evade the Church. Then, she thought of Marcel, and how he might have known about what had happened and how he held back on her. Astraeus sang, sad, and she brushed that from her mind as well. Every man she knew was a disappointment, with the exception of Malcolm, but he hadn’t known her long enough, so there was still time for him to match his peers.

“Are you in trouble?” Evelyn asked, while Oscar was talking to a secretary, and she handed him a folder with paper that he checked quickly. He reached for a phone, then.

“Not quite.” Dorothea reassured her, resisting the urge of adding _yet_ to her words.

The Yard was in disarray, officers going everywhere, anxious, phones ringing all the time. Dorothea stood with Eve by a bench, observing her surroundings. The city police was, in general, often controlled by the Magisterium - through bribery and blackmail, mostly. But the Yard was complicated, it had layers and it depended on who was on command and when and how all the politics were involved. She didn’t feel safe there, that was the end of it; Astraeus watched everything with a keen anxiety.

“You’re pale.” Oscar said, almost jokingly, when he returned to her and he rubbed her arm to help her snap out of her fight-or-flight response. It didn’t work. “You’re safe, Dorothea. No one will hurt you here, I guarantee.”

“Right. The safest place on Earth, Scotland Yard.” She mocked and he furrowed his eyebrows, irritated with her attitude. “Come on, Oscar. The Magisterium has to have at least twenty men on their payroll here.”

“Well, they don’t have me.” He smiled, reassuring, but she wasn’t reassured at all. Of course, she trusted he wasn’t corrupt, but that wasn’t enough. Besides, she was more worried about Eve than herself.

“Well, darling, if you think you can shoot your way out of here, who am I to disagree?” She sighed, tired, glancing around, but no one was watching them. She was feeling paranoid and it was wearing her down. “We need to make sure Eve is safe, though. Drop us by my uncle’s house, will you?”

“Your uncle is also a person of interest.” Oscar said, wearily.

“He is the Duke of Westminster, those fuckers won’t lay a hand on him. She will be safe there.” Evelyn asked for water and to use a lavatory, so Dorothea watched as Oscar asked one of the secretaries to guide her. He turned to Dorothea, closer, his eyes alert now. “What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning her. He wouldn’t find anything, she was too good a liar for him, but it made her uncomfortable anyway. He fixed his hat on his head.

“Nugent called me. He requested me to make sure you arrived safely at Godwin’s house.” Oscar danced with his words, eloquent, polite; it was the sign of a man who was used to dealing with aristocracy and its pettiness. Dorothea had no patience for that sort of thing, she hated the porcelain treatment she received from everyone. She told him to spit it out and he laughed, quietly, then his expression grew darker and grim. “Nugent said you ran into some trouble in Geneva.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” She scoffed, frustrated.

“What the hell did you--” He began, but her eyes saw a detective inspector approaching, urgently.

“ _Shush_ , now!”

Oscar turned to deal with the man, giving time for Dorothea to breathe. She thought of Godwin and of the mess that awaited her. Astraeus shivered; they weren’t ready for the storm that was yet to come, but there was no preparation for such things.

The inspector left them alone again, and Oscar took a step closer, a serious expression on his face. He rested his hands on her shoulder. His eyes were pleading for something, and she knew what it was but she couldn’t tell him. Some secrets were meant for the grave.

“Dorothea--” He began, quietly, but she pushed him away gently.

“You’re too close. People will talk.”

“You worry too much.”

“And you have a wife.” She said in a warning tone, and he shook his head, frustrated.

“I am aware of that. You always mention her, in fact.”

“Because you seem to forget her.” She indulged him a grin, but nothing more. He put his hands on his hips, looking down, blowing the air off his lungs.

“They say you killed a man.” He looked into her eyes, serious, unflinching. She almost chuckled. _Here’s the detective,_ she thought. _Don’t be funny, it isn’t funny!_ Astraeus thought back.

“That’s nonsense.” Her nonchalant voice was endearing.

“Oh really?” He scoffed, and his daemon growled, quietly. Astraeus looked away in a snob movement. “You’re gonna lie to my face?”

She glanced over his shoulder and saw Eve returning, slowly. She smiled at him, looking as innocent as she once had looked like as a girl.

“Yes.”

“I could arrest you.”

“You know me, Oscar, I love being handcuffed but I’m pretty sure you just said your job is to keep me from being arrested.” She shrugged, and Evelyn rejoined them. Dorothea held her close, afraid to lose the girl to any of her paranoia shadows. “So, darling, what is it gonna be?”

She shouldn’t have taunted him, but it felt cathartic. He looked her up and down, unsure, but eventually shrugged and guided them back to the car. Oscar knew better. _Good for him,_ Dorothea thought, envious of his attitude.

*******

They left Evelyn at her uncle’s house, under her aunt’s care, and made it straight for Godwin’s.

Dorothea felt empty, her throat was sore, her body decaying as her mind slowly crashed against the unpleasant thoughts. Oscar didn’t insist further on his questions, but she felt his disapproval, his uncertainty, and it bothered her and worried her at the same time.

They arrived at what it seemed to be a second funeral and Dorothea was sick of funerals. Everyone there had a grim look on their eyes, a soft hush of whispers going about. Nugent was in the living room, surrounded by two official agents, dressed in dark brown suits. There were four more people in the room, having tea in a dreadful, companionship silence, and she recognised a few.

“There you are, pup.” Her uncle began, sitting beside Nugent. He was a tall man, with deep blue eyes like hers, nearing his seventies but the perfect picture of health, very few wrinkles on his face. His daemon was a marmoset, lying lazily on his shoulders. “We were beginning to worry.”

She looked at him and smiled, faintly, her body threatening to yield to her anxiety, but Dorothea persevered. Malcolm and Schlesinger were also there, and the last man in the room was Frank, Godwin’s husband.

The man was a mess, but Dorothea wondered. He had always been a sensitive soul, an artist, paired with Godwin’s practical attitude, it was a surprise he was still standing.

“He has to.” Astraeus reminded her quietly, whispering in her ear. “Godwin is sick, remember?”

“I came as fast as I could.” She began, her voice faltering as she tried to keep a low tune, kneeling before Frank and resting a hand on his knee. He had one hand over his mouth, his eyes red from crying, but he squeezed her hand gently. Dorothea swallowed dry. “What on the bloody hell happened?”

“The fever just, just took over them. Glenys, she… I… She withstood the treatment, but our boy... he... I--” He fell to his tears again, and Dorothea rubbed his arms trying to comfort him. “We-- we haven’t even buried him, yet.”

Nugent touched her shoulder and she looked up. He gestured for her to follow him, so Malcolm took her place in comforting Frank. Dorothea felt numb as she followed Nugent to the hall, where her uncle was already standing, his teacup in hands. He loved his tea very much, she knew.

“They haven’t buried him yet?” She turned to Nugent, while he closed the door to the living room. Her uncle kissed her forehead as she approached him and they watched as Nugent placed his hands in his pockets. “What on Earth?”

“They wanted to bury him with his grandparents, so they brought him here. We sent the body to prepare, of course, he isn’t _here_.” Her uncle said, sipping his tea. “You ought to have come sooner, pup. Things are complicated.”

“I know, I just--” Dorothea avoided his eyes for a moment, stumbling on her words. Astraeus perched on the edge of her shoulder to speak to her uncle’s daemon. “I’m sorry. I am.”

“The important thing is that you’re here now.” Nugent said, and she nodded, solemnly.

They fell silent, the only noise was the whispering daemons, Frank’s muffled crying in the other room and Bryce Eilhart sipping at his tea.

“Nugent tells me you’ve wreaked havoc in Geneva.” He meant well with his amused tone, but she just couldn’t handle it now. She sighed and he reached for her arm, trying to comfort her. “What did you do?”

“I was working on an operation, when this Magisterium official caught me. We fought, I fired my gun, he died. That’s simply put.” She bit her lip. “I am sorry for that, I swear I am. It’s over now.”

“Over?” Nugent said, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t the sort of man who screamed, but his tone was stiff and sour. She would have preferred he had screamed at her. “I’ve made some calls. The police found fingerprints at the scene--”

“Yes, they did, but that has been fixed.”

“Oh, really?” Her uncle was genuinely curious, glancing between her and Nugent, both angry and frustrated and upset for different reasons. “How did you pull that off?”

“Her connection to that man I told you about--” Nugent began, but she raised his hand and shook a finger in his face.

“Oh no, no, no. What he means to say is that I was _fucking_ a Magisterium employee, and he fixed that for me. Connection! Oh, you have some fucking gall, Tom!” She turned to Nugent after her uncle snickered into this teacup, and there was a soft hint of blush on his cheeks. “That’s what you said on the phone, right? Those exact words: _fucking the Magisterium_. You can repeat them now too, not a problem. My uncle is aware I’m a whore, are you not?”

She turned to her uncle, who quickly busied himself into sipping his tea to get away from the conversation, shaking his head. Nugent scowled.

“Your uncle is a sensible gentleman, he shouldn’t have to hear this.”

“But I should?” She took a step closer.

“You’re not sensible.” Nugent said, a hint of a smile on his faith. She pressed her lips tight to avoid grinning, she didn’t want to give him that; instead, she shook her head and paced around, uneasy. “Besides, you mistake my attitude. I am not angry with your results, just with your procedure. We cannot afford recklessness now. You’ve been reckless, but somehow Asriel beat you to it. I assume you’ve heard--”

“Yes, I’ve heard. Oscar told me. Why are you requesting protection for me?” She paced around, a hand on her hip, Astraeus fluttering around her, trying to perch again but her movements were preventing him. “What has Asriel done now?”

“God knows!” Her uncle exclaimed, more excited about it than mad over it. “But the Church has requested military aid for whatever he has done. They almost got it, if I hadn’t argued in Parliament, they would have succeeded. Then they decided to just grant the Magisterium a symbolic group, to appease them. _Appease,_ can you believe them? Where is the backbone of this country?”

“Oh, yes, I saw the soldiers at the landing zone. What a sad bunch.” Dorothea snorted, but she wasn’t amused. “If they’re marching on Svalbard, Brytain could be accused of invasion. It could mean war and worse.”

“We have to believe that it won’t come to that, at least not for now.” Nugent said. “The Magisterium is struggling against the weather in the North, which is a mess thanks to whatever Asriel did. Strong winds, wild storms, the snow is melting away… Honestly, I was surprised you even managed to be on that zeppelin at all!”

“We had a mostly quiet trip, but there was a storm coming our way when we left. Right in the middle of July!”

“Well, there you go. Whatever he did, Asriel certainly infuriated the Church.” Nugent explained. “For us, this is good. They’re divided between fighting each other and Asriel. We need to seize this opportunity and maximize our intel intake.”

“You want to be bold?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Why not? Your deed in Geneva has already destabilised one group, we could benefit a lot from this.”

“Or we could get killed faster. They’ll offer no leniency or mercy.”

“It’s a risk we should consider taking. Their army is scattered, they are paranoid and fighting each other, especially the CCD.” He could barely conceal his excitement. “We should strike at as many fronts as we can!”

“Bullshit. We are not legion for you to waste our lives like that!” Dorothea raised her voice a little, then she sighed and breathed out. Her uncle was still holding her elbow. “You cannot march into this, Tom. They’ll destroy us!”

“She has a point, but what do I know?” Her uncle said, amused.

“I understand your concerns, and I will not act brazenly, but we must work with what we have.” Nugent mumbled. “Why don’t you go upstairs and talk to Godwin? I’m sure she will be glad to see you. When you return, we’ll discuss how to proceed.”

Dorothea’s eyes moved from her uncle to Nugent, wearily, both looking at her the same way they always did, as if she was a child that could not fathom the bigger picture. Then, with her body feeling heavy, she sighed and made her way upstairs.

*******

“So, you’ve been having some fun or so I’ve been told.” Godwin said, her voice clear, despite her sickly appearance.

Dorothea finished opening the curtains, letting the faint sunlight shine upon the dusty furniture. Godwin was sitting on her bed, her dark hair loose and damp, dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she had died and then been reborn; she had lost a lot of weight and her arms were bony, as well as her face. But her eyes were bright and clear, and she seemed well enough despite the circumstances.

Her daemon was another story, though. He was lying beside her, his legs positioned carefully to mimic a lying posture, but he was stiff, his eyes were cloudy and lost, his voice was raspy and he spoke with a struggle that unnerved Dorothea. He was paralyzed, and Godwin rested her hand on his fur, trying to soothe their despair. Dorothea struggled watching that, so she looked away for a while, before sitting at the end of the bed. Astraeus whispered to the daemon, quiet and soothing.

“Fun?” Dorothea said, snorting. “That’s one way of putting it.”

She told Godwin her story once again, this time without hiding her feelings on the matter. She never mentioned Marcel’s name, or him at all, but Godwin sensed her omission. She didn’t interrupt, but she made pertinent questions when Dorothea paused, nothing to do with Marcel, however. She asked how Thea had felt over killing a man, how was her state of mind, the things she had learned in Geneva. Little by little, keeping Dorothea’s mind occupied with answering complex questions, Godwin swept away the sadness stumping her friend. It was as if a weight was being lifted from her shoulders.

“So, here I am, hoping Nugent won’t try and have me expose my affair.” Dorothea sighed and Godwin laughed, quietly, sad. Dorothea rested a hand on her thigh, over the covers. “How are you feeling? What does your doctor say?”

“Well, he believes I will make a full recovery.” Her tenderness while stroking her daemon was touching. “And I agree with him. I can breathe better now, I haven’t had a fever in three days, and I can keep food in since last week.”

“That’s good news.”

“Indeed. Things won’t go back to what they were, but we persevere.” Godwin nodded at her daemon. “The fever somehow affected him in a weird way, we don’t know why or how.”

“With all due respect,” Dorothea said, to the daemon more exclusively, and he nodded with difficulty. “but it is an extraordinary thing. I don’t recall many illnesses that could damage daemons like this.”

“Neither do I, but this didn’t seem to stop Nugent. He offered me the director role again, I’ll be with him in leadership training.” Godwin smiled faintly. Dorothea didn’t understand how she could seem so stable after everything that had happened to her. She envied her immensely. “I’ve accepted it. I’ll keep him in line, I promise.”

“That’s good to hear.”

They fell silent for a brief moment, before Godwin took a deep breath, then coughed.

“Thea.” She said, and cleared her throat, her face serious. “I need a favor.”

“Done.” Dorothea nodded vehemently.

“You don’t even know what I’ll ask of you. You’re not gonna like it.”

“There’s nothing that you could ask of me that I wouldn’t do for you, Glenys.” Dorothea took her hand and squeezed it gently. “Just name it and I’ll do it.”

“I need you to bury my boy for me. I’m still too weak, I’m not sure I can do it, I’ll try for sure but I don’t know.” She sighed and Dorothea finally saw the cracks in her calm mask. It was the picture of sheer sadness. “Frank, he can’t do this alone, he won’t make it. Please, be there for him, for me.”

“For Christ’s sake, Glenys! Do you really think you have to ask that of me? Of course I will be there!”

“You have a lot on your mind. I didn’t want to feel like I am adding to that burden.”

Dorothea squeezed her hand gently, and Astraeus brushed his head against the civet cat, full of affection and pity. The daemon purred with difficulty.

“No matter what, the world will keep on spinning. It will be there to crush me regardless, so you don’t have to worry about my burdens. I am well equipped to handle them.” Dorothea smiled, trying to inspire confidence and whether she succeeded or not, she would never know. “I’ll be here for you, Godwin, always. Remember that.”

She helped Godwin settle on her bed for her rest, and then went down the stairs, feeling for once less worried, though that did not last. Godwin’s pragmatism had that effect on people, she could see things clearly and act swiftly and fix problems with efficiency. Dorothea’s current worries had been wiped away mercilessly.

Nugent was waiting for her by the door, her uncle beside him, looking as unimportant as he could manage. Malcolm had also joined them, arms crossed over his chest with Asta in his arms, his usual nonchalant attitude pouring out of him. She approached them, ready for whatever mess Nugent was preparing for her.

“So, here we are.” She announced, matter-of-factly and her uncle smirked.

“Here you are. What do you make of it?” Nugent asked, quietly, his daemon observing her with curiosity. She frowned, confused. “The daemon. Why isn’t he moving?”

“Really? That’s your-- Well, nevermind. I don’t know, it’s an odd thing to happen.” She sighed. “I’m not a medical doctor, though. There might be knowledge that I lack in this case.”

“Possibly, but Tom thinks it is more in your field of research.” Her uncle said, quietly, his eyes darting around quickly before he lowered his voice. “Dust, you know.”

“I’m not involved in researching Dust.” She stiffened, feeling a little persecuted for no reason she could explain.

“You were, once. You understand it well, don’t you?” Nugent smiled, gently, which meant trouble was on her way. He was a good man, but ruthless and meticulous; she saw it coming far too late.

“Listen, now, I--” She began, but he interrupted her by raising his hand.

“Don’t be modest. You _are_ an experimental theologian, aren’t you?” He chuckled when Dorothea sighed heavily, hands on her hips. She nodded, against her own will. “You used to do research in the Rusakov field business. I am simply curious about what theories could you have for Godwin’s dilemma, that is all.”

“Right. That’s nonsense. You want to know how much I know so you can make me useful, that’s fine. I’ll indulge you.” She looked around, facing them one by one with a grim expression. Astraeus nested on her head, trying to help her stay focused. “While we believe Dust is an important component of the daemons, it is yet to be fully proved by science. And yes, for Godwin’s daemon to be affected, something extreme might have happened. Maybe she had a near death experience, something that could have threatened the physical aspect of her daemon, but that’s a hypothesis and I hate hypotheses. They’re inconclusive and unhelpful.”

“You think she might have died?” Her uncle’s confusion was shared between the others.

“Of course not! If she had died, the daemon would have died as well, which did not happen. But near death experiences could trigger collateral damage on the daemon, make them sick, change their behaviour… I could go on. It happens every now and again, a car accident, someone survives a stroke, suicide survivors. But whatever happened, it is beyond me to understand. I’m a physicist, not a doctor, or a medical doctor for that matter.” She shook her head. “The issue is probably with the fever and that’s not my field of expertise. Trust me, I’m curious about it too, but I can’t say what’s wrong.”

“Very well. What about Asriel?” Nugent went on, serious and Dorothea snorted, tired. Considering even Marcel was aware of her research being involved with Asriel, even if she hadn’t signed it, it wasn’t a surprise Nugent would question her too.

“Honestly? The less we know the better. From what I hear, he had in his mind that he found the source of Dust and whether that is true or not, I personally do not care. Hell, I think it’s true, but what does it matter, from a wider perspective?” Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but she raised her finger to interrupt him. “Exactly! It _doesn’t_ matter. It’s philosophical bullshit. You said the Church believes he messed with the weather?”

“Well, they didn’t _officially_ claim that, that would be a dangerous claim, of course, making him seem too esoteric for their taste. But they do believe he did something, it’s what the rumours say, anyway.” Nugent exhaled, rubbing his temples. “What could he have done to the weather?”

“Depends on the scale of it. The snow is melting, you say? That’s not good. It means something disturbed the atmosphere enough to raise the temperature in the North, which is no easy feat and certainly not easy to do manually. It takes years, decades-- Hell, even centuries, for the temperature of such a specific place on the planet to change so substantially. Now, the storms and the wind, these are all affected by changes in the atmosphere and their intensity varies on how intense the disturbance was, how large the area affected is and what type of disturbance occurred--” Dorothea barely realised she was carried away explaining the thing, but her uncle touched her shoulder gently to stop her from ranting.

“What she means is that Asriel likely dropped something in the sky.” He chuckled, tapping her shoulder and she nodded, catching her breath.

“Makes sense, but why?” Nugent looked at her and Dorothea shrugged.

“You’d have to ask Asriel. Nothing in my research had anything to do with Dust sources. This is way out of my league.”

“Not a single scholar that attended Asriel’s presentation speaks about it, now.” Malcolm mentioned, quietly, snuggling Asta in his arms. “They’re all afraid of retaliation. We’re stuck.”

“Not really. We don’t need to know about Asriel to act, I’m curious, that’s all. Well, you _are_ a Dust expert, Dottie, or at least you were--” Nugent crossed his arms, pondering.

“Here we go--” She said under her breath, which made the men smirk.

“I want you to find out what is the CCD planning. Them, specifically. I know it has something to do with Asriel’s child, but I’m more concerned about their interest in Dust.” He ignored her pacing that was solely there to show her discontent. “We’ll wait a few days, maybe a week until things calm down and they stop arresting Asriel’s acquaintances. Still, I want you to have another agent with you at all times, be it Malcolm or Bud or whoever.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary, but very well. I’ll do as you say.” Dorothea let go of her hips, Astraeus chirping in her head. He disagreed with her, fiercely. He believed the protection was more than necessary.

“You are not safe and by asking this of you, I am afraid I’m putting you in further danger, but you are one of our specialists and I need someone close to this information that can actually understand it.” Nugent went on and she nodded as he spoke. “I’m not questioning your skills. It’s a matter of safety.”

“I know.” She said matter-of-factly, which caught him and her uncle by surprise. Malcolm smiled at her, he could tell she wasn’t pleased but she was also not looking for a fight.

“You do?” Nugent asked, probing her to find whatever she could be hiding, but he wouldn’t find anything. She was simply tired. “That’s odd. I expected you to resist my orders.”

“Well, I would, under normal circumstances. Truth is, if you want this, I’m not inclined to argue.” She allowed herself to smile, condescending. “I am, however, not afraid of dying.”

Nugent chuckled and tapped her arm, gently. Then she turned to make her way into Godwin’s drawing room, but her uncle’s voice stopped her before she could open the door.

“You know, my dear, you will think very differently about this when you are older.”

“Well, that’s where you’re mistaken, uncle.” She looked over her shoulder, snickering. “I have every intention of dying young.”

They stared at her, amused, confused, worried, but she opened the doors and made her way inside, not before turning to them and saying with the utmost perfect imagery of innocence.

“I’ll be seeing you, gentlemen.”


	22. enemies among us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, here's another update! i'm gonna have to go offline for a while, but i'll continue to write and update once i settle in my new house. hope u enjoy!

_and again she felt alone, in the presence_  
_of her old antagonist, life._  
**virginia woolf**

“Why do you think he went in there?” Malcolm asked, looking at Dorothea from his driver’s seat. She was leaning against the panel, looking bored as they watched the street, while hidden underneath a tree’s shade on the other side, a car in front of theirs and a van behind.

“Oh, I can think of a few reasons, most of them not really good. I’m sure we’ll learn something, though. _Eventually._ ” She turned to him and smiled, gritty. Her daemon was perched on her neatly done hair, like a fashionable accessory that every now and again insulted her. “Have a little faith.”

“In God? I thought you were an atheist.” He jested and she scoffed.

“In _me_ , Malcolm. I’m not just a troublemaker, you know.” She leaned against the seat and took a bite at her biscuit. “I’m sure he is there for some obscure reason that matters to us.”

This was a week after she had arrived in London, and with the Magisterium now fully focused on marching to the North, Dorothea could now move about the country without fearing imprisonment. Not that Malcolm ever thought she was afraid of such a thing, but she seemed glad to be able to walk around without caution. She seemed almost happy these days.

“You said that office had been registered under the General Oblation Board’s name.” She pointed out, frowning. He nodded. “I wonder how they’re involved in this.”

“Hoping for a favour, maybe?”

“It’s possible, yes, but I don’t know. Didn’t Coram say the Gyptians dismantled the station in the North?”

“Yes, but they didn’t really destroy the GOB, not when Mrs. Coulter still remains untouched.” Malcolm breathed out, frustrated. “Do you think she knows where Lyra is?”

“If she doesn’t, she will soon find out, if that is what she wants. There’s no stopping Marisa once she sets out to do something.” Dorothea sighed, rubbing her eyes. “The fact the Gyptians lost Lyra annoys me, though. How hard can it be to keep a twelve year-old under their care?”

Malcolm laughed, petting Asta’s head while she rested on the panel, watching the streets.

“You’d be surprised.”

“And people say I’m missing on the kids thing. As if!” Dorothea mocked. They watched the building in silence then, Malcolm’s attention divided between their target and his book on the Lop Nor region. Astraeus whispered something to Dorothea, who hummed, pensative. “Strange place, that lake, huh?”

“It is odd, yes. Moving about, interfering with daemons… Makes one wonder what goes on in there.” He sighed, because he had been thinking about it laboriously for the last months, wondering about the connections between the lake and his own daemon bond.

“Interference? You mean, like... the witches?” He saw the muscles of her mouth form what he assumed was meant to be _’like you?’_ but she gave up halfway there. Malcolm knew she knew about his condition, but she never truly mentioned it. He could tell it made her uncomfortable and not many things had that effect on Lady Eilhart. He nodded to her comment, though. “Interesting. You really believe there is a connection there?”

“There might be. At the very least, there is nothing to prove that it doesn’t.” She nodded, mindlessly, her eyes stuck at the building’s entrance but he and Asta could feel her mind elsewhere. It was hard to read her in that furtive state, thinking of things while simultaneously disguising the act of thinking itself.

“I wonder if it could help Godwin. You know, her daemon being paralyzed and all that-- wait, someone’s coming!”

Both stiffened in their seat while she saw a man wearing a clean, beautifully cut suit. He was in his fifties, tanned, dark hair and a cheerful disposition, if not a little too slimy for Dorothea’s taste. They waited until the man got in his car, and then gave him a bit of a head start before following.

They ended up in front of a fancy hotel but not too fancy, parked on the parallel street. The man, whom they knew as Dr Montague, made his way inside, not before glancing over his shoulder. He was wary, his gecko daemon mimicking his movement.

“This is weird.” Malcolm said, not a very astute remark.

They had been following the man for four days, not too closely, but enough to find out a pattern. That hotel strayed from the pattern, way too much, because Dr Montague was a frugal man, living modestly despite his beautiful clothes; eating modestly despite the fact he often was seen in posh restaurants across London. He was a modest man on the inside, an indulgent creature on the outside. And he was supplying the CCD with some type of raw material that was being used in weapons manufacturing, except that wasn’t true - or at least, there was no trace of the weapons being real, as far as they knew.

“Indeed.” Dorothea mumbled mindlessly, but then she hummed, realising she had agreed with him without paying any attention to what he had said. “Wait, is it though?”

“You don’t think so?”

“Fancy hotel, proper enough for a man of his status, and not known enough to conceal his business, which is either unpleasant or indecent. He is a fairly attractive man, not my type, but you never know people’s tastes.” Malcolm stared her down, baffled. She clicked her tongue, amused. “He is married, isn’t he?”

“Ah, mistress!” He and Asta said together, and Dorothea chuckled, Astraeus nested on her hair.

“Well, I think so. Or at least he is doing some dubious business there. A man like Dr Montague would prefer more renowned hotels to stay, and so would his general company, if he was just attending a gathering in a bar. Lords, politicians, that sort of people prefer the five-stars places, not some cozy, modern teahouse across a quiet street.”

“What do we do then?”

“We wait, what else? If we’re lucky she isn’t there yet, we might get a glimpse of her.”

“Or him.” Asta added, cheerfully.

Malcolm rested his elbow on the door, preparing for their stake out. He wished they had brought more than just biscuits, he was getting hungry.

“Hm, possible.” She said, in her absent-minded way. “At any rate, it’s gonna be a long day.”

***

Dr Montague left the hotel around ten in the evening. Malcolm was deeply lost in his reading, and Dorothea was wallowing in her own thoughts, but Astraeus saw him and warned them.

“There he goes, the illusive man.” They watched as the man got inside his car, brought to him by a valet. “Odd timing though, leaving a lover at ten.”

“Maybe he needs to be home for dinner.” Malcolm jested, as even after he bought a quick snack in a place nearby he was still very hungry. “Or maybe they fought. Or she didn’t show.”

“No, I think she was already there, but now I’m not sure she is his lover.” Dorothea tapped her finger against her mouth. “No, something here is amiss. He seems distraught, even more now than he was before. Something happened.”

“Should we go after him?” Malcolm asked, ready to start the car but Dorothea took a while to reply, then shook her head, resting her hand on his arm.

“No. Let’s wait a bit.” She leaned against her seat, Astraeus on her shoulder, and they both looked intently at the hotel entrance, beautifully lit by soft white and gold lights, people walking in and out and through the sidewalk, enjoying the fresh summer air. “You can read, I’ll watch for the woman.”

“How will you know her?” Malcolm scoffed. “I mean, there’s a lot of people coming and going, Dorothea.”

“The world has its own way of making itself known.” She said in a mimicry of a magician speaking to their audience, and smirked at him. “Have a little faith.”

Malcolm tried going back to his book, but he couldn’t read anymore, not now that he was witnessing Dorothea’s famed instincts at play. She was known for, more often than not, having these hunches that turned out perfectly. There was a savagery in her eyes when that happened, as if she was possessed by something, and he found it rather endearing. He knew she wouldn’t look at him with anything more than familial affection, but even so, he rather liked watching her. She had soft features that were always hardened by her thoughts; it made her look like the most delicate greek statue.

“You’re very certain it is a woman.” He mumbled, not very loudly so as to not disturb her.

“I could be wrong, of course, but now that we’ve settled that she is possibly not a lover, something tells me it _is_ a woman. Dr Montague seems like a very cautious man, and if this is illegal or dangerous, he wouldn’t risk meeting a man that could overpower him. I’m pretty certain of that.” She side eyed him and smiled, wickedly. “He is very… politician-like. Doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, it’s how I perceive him, anyway. Also, you know, my _instincts_.”

“Ah, yes. Your _instincts_.” He said, jokingly, dragging the word slowly to make fun of her. “Seems a bit far fetched, if I’m being honest.”

“Well, plot armor and all that.” She grinned, her eyes moving through the people walking by and out of the hotel. Astraeus was moving back and forth in his spot, as if in a swing, his little head bouncing softly; he looked like he was in a trance. “The Gyptians say it might have something to do with the secret commonwealth, of course they do. I think nonsense, I’m just unusually clever, but what do I know? Malcolm, there!”

She gestured at the entrance as they both watched a woman, small and lean, dark skinned, leaving in her pretty purple dress. She didn’t hesitate for a moment, blending in with the crowd easily and without attracting so much as a blink of attention. Her daemon, a butterfly, was small enough to seem invisible in the night air.

“Of course it’s her.” Dorothea laughed, bitterly.

“It must be a coincidence.” Malcolm whistled, turning on the car without needing a prompt. “Lots of people she could be meeting in that place.”

“That’s a hell of a coincidence and I don’t believe that.” Dorothea checked her watch, then heard Astraeus’s whispers. She nodded, then, humming quietly. Malcolm wished he could know what they were discussing.

“Do we follow her?” Malcolm asked, but he was sort of already following the woman at this point.

“Yes, but only to make sure she gets home safely. I’ll watch to see if she is being followed by someone else.” Dorothea sighed and shook her head. “Damn you, Adèle, what the fuck are you doing?”

***

“Are you insane?” Dorothea whispered, as she watched Adèle Starminster pile up papers and separate them in her already paper loaded desk. The journalist’s room was ridiculously packed, with pictures and more paper and the two figures over the desk, staring at each other with more tension than usual.

“Don’t be dramatic, it doesn’t suit you.” Adèle sipped her coffee while she tried to make something out of her own ugly notes. She clumsily typed, then, in her old typewriter. “I did nothing wrong. He is a source, nothing more. I do things like this all the time!”

“Not when we’re in conflict, Adèle! Bloody hell, do you have any idea who that man is?" Adèle raised her eyes at Dorothea, barely affected by her anger and worry. “He is practically selling weapons to--”

“Not _weapons_ . Materials for, well, maybe a weapon. He doesn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t seem to ask about it.” Adèle shook her head at Dorothea’s scowling face. “Of course I know who he is, who do you take me for? I did my research and _you_ are acting like the man is a monster. He is a victim, I assure you. Where is _your_ research, Eilhart?”

“Right.” Her scoff made Adèle frown. Dismissiveness was more insulting to her than rudeness, Dorothea was fairly aware. “A man supplies military materials for the CCD and you want me to believe he is--”

She was speaking in a slightly loud tone, when one of Adèle’s coworkers walked by her office door, barely minding them at all, but Dorothea stopped herself and lowered her voice before going on.

“He is a _victim_? Really?”

“Yes, really. It started as a normal supply of raw materials, but they started requesting more and more specific materials and they aren’t letting him out of the deal. He has a family and he is afraid.” Adèle tapped gently at Dorothea’s hand, which was resting on her own hip. “Cheer up, dear. I’ll give you the information I have on him, if it will help you. But you need to lay-off the man, he is awfully stressed out.”

“You can’t publish that!” Dorothea paced in the small room, Astraeus flying around her head like a shimmery orange crown.

“Woah, slow down, CCD!” Adèle jested, her butterfly daemon flying around her head. Dorothea frowned, irritated. Adèle’s refreshing youth came with the undesirable trait of being inappropriately humoured. “I have to publish this piece, else all this work was for nothing! I need to eat too, you know?”

“You publish that piece, that man is dead!” Dorothea tapped her fingertip on the desk as she spoke, and for once Adèle seemed genuinely worried. “The CCD is at war, well, _kind of_ at war. They will take no chances, especially with you trying to pin them on several illegal charges like this. Do you have any idea the shitstorm this will cause? Politically? Socially? Militarily?”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Adèle said, matter-of-factly, not looking in Dorothea’s eyes, typing methodically; Dorothea had the impression she was pressing the buttons as strongly as she could so the noise would overpower the sound of her chastising voice. “Hell, you should be thanking me! Isn’t the CCD’s head you people want?”

“You’re not giving us their heads, you’re simply poking the wasps’ nest and leaving us alone with it! They will kill you too, Adèle. Please, you must tread carefully!”

“Do you really care about me or are you just worried I might jeopardize your people’s work?” Her tone was vicious and unusual, but Dorothea could hardly blame her. It took her by surprise, frankly.

“Oakley Street’s work _is_ important, but personally, _I_ worry for you.” She leaned in to whisper. “You are too careless, too fearless. You need that fear, Adèle, it keeps you grounded.”

“Fear is unproductive.” Adèle turned her attention to the paper in front of her, writing down a note and typing more, but Dorothea noticed her daemon on her hair, slowly moving his wings, unsure. She was pondering what she had been told. She finally sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Damn it, Dorothea, stop coming here and putting reason into my head! I’m a journalist, I can’t be reasonable!”

Dorothea smiled warmly, but her expression darkened again when she thought about Dr Montague. Adèle showed her the notes, explaining the man’s reluctance in talking about his CCD deal.

“I pressed him as much as I could, but I think he might have been threatened again lately. He said he didn’t want to do this anymore, and he was afraid. _Really_ afraid. That’s what he told me, yesterday at the hotel, anyway.” Adèle sighed. Dorothea raised an eyebrow, inquisitive. Adéle sighed again and slouched her shoulders, frustrated. “We’ve been meeting for a few weeks there, his suggestion. The man would rather be labelled an adulterer than risk being discovered as a rat against those Consistorial thugs. That’s how desperate he is, you have to understand that.”

“If he is being coerced, I feel for him, but it doesn’t change the fact he is helping them build weapons, Adèle!” Dorothea pointed at one of her notes, leaning on her hands against the table. “His company has a long history of weaponry supplies. Dating back to the War against Muscovy, in 1907. That’s a whole century ago, nearly.”

“They deal in steel and iron, Eilhart, come on! It’s not just weapons, you know that quite well. Why you’re insistent on thinking that he is a bad man is what eludes me, though.” Adèle looked her up and down, seriously. Dorothea rested her hands on her hips, stretching her head up and down, then sighing heavily.

Astraeus landed on the table, and tilted his little grey head at Adèle, friendly but gloomy.

“The world is a lot easier when everything isn’t grey, I think.” He said, ominously. Dorothea looked down at him, and he turned to face her, sad and stoic. She swallowed hard; she knew what he meant and she agreed wholeheartedly. He turned again to Adèle. “If this man is a victim, we must help him. I _think_.”

Dorothea groaned. “Bloody hell. Yes, _fine_.”

“Yes, that’s what I expected you to say from the _beginning._ ” Adèle taunted her with a smirk and Dorothea made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “I’m trying to organise what I have, but without his consent and the full information, I can’t publish the piece. I mean, I could, but it loses its credibility - and like you said, it places him and his family in danger. I’m not a fucking tabloid!”

“You’re gonna push him further?” Dorothea shook her head, pressing her lips tight. “Is that wise? Didn’t you say he backed away from it?”

“Well, he is afraid, and I think he was threatened again. Maybe someone got a sense of what we were doing, after all.” She finally looked Dorothea in her eyes, offering her a stack of notes with a rushed shorthand. “If you were to offer him protection, however--”

“You think he would cooperate?” Dorothea took the papers, reluctantly, and placed them on her purse, carefully. That alone was a sign of agreement to the deal, they both knew.

“I assume so. I’m not gonna say he is a good man, no such thing I think, but he is a decent man, that much I can say. He feels guilty and ashamed and he cares deeply for his family, and I checked his background--” Adèle opened her small notebook looking for a specific note. She found it quickly and pointed it out to Dorothea. “ _‘Most negotiations prior to the CCD deal were with the Society of the Work of the Holy Spirit, mostly raw materials for building water filters for poorer communities and other types of utilities for general use in Geneva.’_ There you go. Not truly a warmonger criminal, just an unlucky idiot.”

“Convenient.” Dorothea scoffed, but she shook her head. The world _was_ easier when it wasn’t grey, Astraeus was very much correct on that, but the truth is there was no such thing as a not-grey world. “Very well, I’ll see what I can do about this, but no promises. My people won’t be happy with this, I’ll tell you that much. Yesterday, this man was a greedy crook.”

“You have to try and convince them otherwise. People need to know what is happening. What they’re doing is illegal and it could be the basis for a pushback of the CCD from England. This could change everything!”

Adèle’s eyes glittered with determination and Dorothea didn’t have the heart to tell her that, whatever that piece was, with or without Dr Montague’s consent, nothing would ever truly change.

***

Nugent heard the story quietly, leaning back on his chair at his office in the Oakley Street office building. Dorothea was sitting across him, two days after she spoke to Adèle, and the room smelled like a pungent wood, as if the furniture was new. Astraeus was examining a small plant on the desk while she and Malcolm told their director their findings on the man they had been set to follow.

“What are those raw materials for?” Nugent put his teacup down, waiting patiently for an answer. Dorothea was the senior agent, in a way, so she was the one doing most of the talking. “Do you have any idea?”

“Not yet, but I haven’t approached Montague to find out. He might be able to tell us more.” She ran her fingers around her neck, trying to relieve her tension. It was a hot day, and the windows were open, and she was wearing a summer dress with short sleeves and thin fabric, but there was still sweat on her skin.

“He is involved with the CCD. A man like that might be unapproachable. Socially, of course.”

“We have reason to believe he is being coerced into assisting them.”

“That doesn’t make this any better, Dottie.” Nugent frowned, resting his chin on the back of his wrist, lips tightly pressed against each other. “It complicates things more, in fact. If he is an enemy, we can eliminate him, that’s easy. But if he is a hostage--”

“He is, or that is what I’ve gathered from the information I received. If he is a victim, I believe we should try and turn him.” Dorothea tapped her fingers on the desk, softly. “A man like him is too valuable to waste and we can afford to offer him protection.”

“Turn him?” Malcolm asked suddenly, and she turned to meet his eyes. “I mean, what do you expect to accomplish?”

She turned to Nugent again, her curls moving as she moved too, and she faced him with a wary determination. If Adèle planned on risking her life, Dorothea would do her best to cause as much chaos as she could in order to help her.

“In a few weeks, Miss Starminster will publish an article that will put the CCD’s actions in England under scrutiny. You see, she has evidence that Dr Montague was coerced and continues to be forced to sell his products only to the CCD. This isn’t even the Magisterium, this is the Consistorial Court _alone_. When this article gets published, Adèle will suffer a considerable backlash, which she said she is prepared to endure, but I want us to do more. We can take advantage of this situation and buy us time to figure out what is going on.”

“You want to approach a man, with real ties to the CCD, to help your friend?” Nugent smiled, but there was a lot of judgement in his tone. He wasn’t seeing the whole picture, or perhaps she was failing to explain it, but either way it frustrated her.

“No, that’s not it. Listen, when I was in Geneva my…” She stopped, swallowed dry, and raised her eyes at Nugent who grinned, a sad grin, of a father who says ’I told you so!’ when a child misbehaves. She cleared her throat. “My acquaintance told me that the CCD had requested the official Magisterium alethiometer, the one in the possession of the Society of the Work of the Holy Spirit. They wanted it for something, which we assumed had to do with Asriel, or at least that was what… _he_ told me, anyway.”

“He isn’t a reliable man.” Nugent said, matter-of-factly, sipping his tea again. His daemon watched her with her usual eerie expression. Dorothea could sense Malcolm’s confusion, his eyes coming and going from Nugent and her, but she was in no mood to explain.

“No, that’s true, but I don’t think he lied about this.” Dorothea sighed. “At any rate, the CCD was denied its request, which was an odd political move. Because of that, they conscripted the Paris alethiometer, which is now in Geneva alongside the other two. Don’t you see? The CCD and the Society are fighting over _something_ , although not quite openly. The Society is influential enough that they could afford to say no to the Consistorial Court, and people don’t just do that, you know that very well.”

“Their infighting is as beneficial as it is damaging to us.” Nugent said, stern. “If they go into an open conflict, we’d be forced to choose a side, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Yes, I know, and I trust you would choose to side with the Society. The CCD is a menace, and should the opportunity arise to destroy them, even if it means elevating another group in its place, we must take it.” Dorothea sighed, rubbing her temples. “But unfortunately, what I just told you has no meaning, because the CCD stole important supplies that the Society needed to continue to make money and assert influence across the Church. Dr Montague used to deal with many Church groups, the Society being one of his main clients, until the CCD isolated him by threatening his life.”

“I see. And the Society has no real meaningful military strength, they rely on money and influence, and without those--”

“They are pretty much doomed, yes. Not literally, but they will be forced to do as the CCD says.” Dorothea rested against her chair, her nail scratching the armrest faintly, while she bit the inside of her mouth, thinking. “What I want us to do is to wait until Adèle publishes her article, and then we sabotage the incoming of resources to the CCD on the part of Montague Shipments, shortly after the article goes public. The CCD won’t be able to tell whether it was resistance forces that did it or if it was the Society’s work. That way, they won’t care as much for the article as they normally would, instead turning to deal with the Society, as they stand to gain the most from their sabotaged resources.”

Nugent went silent, his index fingertip over his lips, as he pondered what she had just said. She breathed out, glancing quickly at Malcolm who nodded at her, encouragingly. Nugent finally hummed, straightening himself on his chair and leaning with his arms on his desk to look at her.

“That is rather ingenious of you. But how do we sabotage such a big batch of resources? What are they exactly shipping to the CCD and where?”

“Where? From my findings, I believe the shipments arrive by zeppelin in Geneva, but I still don’t know the exact location. We also don’t know what exactly are those resources, but I can find that out as soon as I can make contact with Dr Montague. The sabotage is the easy part, I think.”

“How so?”

“We make sure Dr Montague helps us, of course. We offer him and his family protection, he could allow us to send saboteurs to his warehouses. But we need to protect them.”

“That’s a wild gamble, Dorothea.”

“Maybe. The truth is, regardless of what we do here, the CCD will regain its strength in some way. This is a temporary solution, until we can find a way to figure out what is going on. Something obscure lurks beneath this political buffoonery, and the war against Asriel, something that eludes us. We must find out what that is and fast.”

Nugent's eyes and that of his daemons observed her with immense meticulousness. He was measuring her confidence, and that she had plenty to feign. It was a skill she had honed her entire life, trying to look like she was worth more than she actually was. The Lord Chancellor nodded, at last, visually satisfied. She almost breathed out with relief, but she contained her body language.

“Very well. You seem to have a clear vision on this, so I will let you approach the man and try to turn him. Valuable help cannot be shunned away, no matter how tricky it is. We cannot afford to be picky.” He sighed. “If you fail to turn him, however, we take him down the hard way. A man like that cannot be a loose end for anyone. Are we clear?”

“Yes, very much so.” She had a bitter taste in her mouth; by threatening Montague's life, he had just raised the stakes for her.

“Good work, the two of you. If this goes smoothly, it's a win for us and God knows we are in dire need of a victory.”

He dismissed them, and Dorothea followed Malcolm to the door before Nugent called her out.

“Dottie, there is something I'd like to discuss.” And then he looked at Malcolm meaningfully. “In private.”

She turned back as Malcolm closed the door on his way out. Dorothea rested her hands on the chair's rest, waiting for what she already knew was coming.

“No rest for the wicked.” Astraeus whispered in her ear and she scoffed quietly.

Nugent noticed it.

“You know what this is about.” He said, matter-of-factly.

“Yes. Anyone with half a brain would know what this is about, Tom.”

“You need to make peace with Delamare.”

“No.”

“He is a useful asset, we could use his assistance.”

“No.”

“You must, Dorothea. A man like that has a lot of pull.”

“I’m not going back. He made me kill a man. Why can’t you understand something like that is unforgivable?”

“He told you he didn’t do it, didn’t he?”

“He’s lying. He is a liar, that’s all he ever does. I’m not going back.”

“Dottie--”

“No. You want to go ahead and make this affair public, fine, do what you gotta do. But I’m not spreading my legs for a man who has not the slightest respect for my feelings, not for the sake of you, not for the sake of anyone or anything. He made me hurt someone and I have to live with that, but I’m not dealing with him ever again.” Dorothea spat, trying not to shake from her rage. “Now, if you think that this makes me a bad agent, then I’ll just have to work extra hard to make it up for it. But I’m not going back to Marcel. We can, and we shall do without him.”

“You’re letting your feelings get in the way and that is unproductive.” Nugent said, a little too sardonic and that touched a nerve.

She slammed her hand against the wooden chair, making a loud noise, loud enough that one of the agents knocked on the door to make sure everything was okay. He opened the door, a young man she recognised from one of the files she had retrieved from Geneva with Marcel’s help. She met the man’s eyes, but the thought made her look away. Shame, relief, sadness, a sense of purpose that was coming mostly from Astraeus; he believed in a greater good, and therefore thought everything was worth the pain. Dorothea was more practical than that.

“I’m not a machine, Tom. My sole purpose is not to be productive.” She shook her head at him. “The sooner you learn that, the sooner everyone in this place will stop acting like feelings and moral sense don't matter. It does, trust me. It definitely does.”

Nugent pressed his lips tightly, and nodded faintly at her, but she barely noticed, as she walked away passing by the young man, glancing quickly at him, and leaving through the buzzing office that watched warily as the Marchioness of Winchester left the Director’s office, once again, in a terrible mood.


	23. chronicles of forgotten wars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, I finally finished this chapter and I don't ever want to see it again! lmao  
> Good news is that with this, TSK events are over and we can get to the scenes that led me to write this fic in the first place.  
> Sorry for the massive delay, this chapter really was dreaful to write.  
> At the third section, the song playing in the background is (Why couldn't we last) Last Night by Glenn Miller. In case you want some atmospheric nonsense lmao

_you sliced me loose and said it was Creation._   
_I could feel the knife._   
**margaret atwood**

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” A woman called.

Dorothea turned on her spot, holding a glass of champagne by the balcony, feeling the summer air on her bare shoulders. She had been watching the room, a fine penthouse with warm lights and beautiful flowers, and the finest paintings money could buy.

The woman greeting her was the hostess of the soiree, and an old school friend, Leticia Vaughan.

“I wanted some air.” Dorothea sipped her champagne, scanning the room. Leticia’s daemon on her shoulder, a chameleon, matched the colour of her dress, a deep purple.

“Bullshit. You’re _observing_. You used to do that all the time when we were in school.” Lady Vaughan leaned against the balustrade, and they both watched the room in a nonchalant way, or at least, Leticia tried. She was a renowned artist, and therefore was absolutely unfamiliar with the concept of discretion. “Montague is here. Alone, to my surprise. I expected his wife to accompany him.”

“It’s best if he is alone. Our conversation will not be very pleasant.” Dorothea picked a new flute of champagne when the waiter passed her by, and she ignored Leticia’s judgemental gaze. She wasn’t drunk, but this was her seventh flute and the party was still starting. “I understand her health is very fragile.”

“Frailest woman in the Empire!” Leticia laughed, in her mindless way. Dorothea liked her, but Leticia had no interest in the mundane world of common sense and this could make her be rather crude in her behavior. “I hope you’re not intending to cause a scandal, dear.”

“It’s just a conversation.” Dorothea smiled, pleasantly, but Leticia scoffed.

“Right. Try not to upset him too much, alright? This is a nice party so far, I would hate for it to end so fast.” She snickered when her eyes met someone among the people gathered in her home. “There’s Boreal. Always in Marisa’s shadow.”

Dorothea watched with a certain wariness as Marisa, wearing a beautiful blue gown, made pleasant conversation with a group of people Dorothea recognised but cared little for. Boreal stood by her seat on the couch, his hand resting on her shoulder in a rather possessive gesture that made sense to Dorothea. One of the men Marisa was talking to was leaning towards her, mesmerised as usual, and Boreal was right to assume that the slightest misstep would cause him to go home, alone.

“I wish she would put up with someone else, not him.” Dorothea shuddered. “He unnerves me.”

“Why? I find him pleasant, if not a little snobbish.” Leticia’s stoic ways had a certain childishness that could be endearing or frustrating. At the moment, Dorothea was merely frustrated.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it, but he does.” Dorothea _could_ go on about why she disliked him, but mentioning the Magisterium to a woman like Leticia was pointless. She would just get bored and leave. “Marisa has some nerve, though, I’ll give her that.”

“I think you’re just jealous.” Leticia mocked her, in good spirit, while Dorothea made a face of disgust and drank her champagne.

Music changed in the background, soft and cheerful, and Marisa was swept away by the man she was talking to so they could dance further in the house. Boreal looked most displeased, but he succeeded in disguising it, for the most part.

“Have some common sense, Let. He’s not my type.”

“True. Rumour has it you like foreigners.” Her gaze was of legitimate curiosity, and then she took a step back to examine Dorothea more carefully. Dorothea tried to disguise her uneasiness with the comment, but Leticia was quicker to notice it. “The outrage in your eyes! Beautiful! When will you let me paint you, woman? How many times will I have to beg?”

“As many as I feel like it.” Dorothea snickered, and Leticia slapped her arm friendly. “Where is Bernard?”

“I don’t know. Out there.” She gestured mindlessly for the crowd. “Probably watching Marisa. They all are.”

“You should divorce him.” Dorothea mocked her, but Leticia laughed, unaware of the seriousness of Dorothea’s comment.

Her husband was a social climber, polite, handsome, and a charmer who had married Leticia for her money and title. Leticia adored the fool, however, and no evidence of any betrayal had appeared so far, but Dorothea disliked the man. She hated opportunists because they weren’t reliable and Bernard Vaughan was a true opportunist.

“You take him too seriously. Ben is a trickster, he means and does no harm.”

“Right.” Dorothea dragged the word to make sure Leticia understood she doubted that very much. “Why did you invite Marisa?”

“Why not? Besides the fact that one does not throw a party and doesn’t invite Marisa Coulter.” Leticia sideeyed Dorothea, cautious. “It’s social suicide! You remember Harriet Lawson.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Precisely.” Leticia said, matter-of-factly.

Dorothea scoffed, but she nodded. Marisa liked being included and those who forgot that detail ended up socially outcast. She knew who to whisper to in order to destroy someone’s reputation and in their little world, that was more than enough.

“There is Montague.” She pointed at the man walking into the study. Dorothea began to move, but Leticia held her arm briskly. “Be careful, Thea. From what Ben tells me, he is mixed up with some bad business.”

Dorothea patted her friend’s hand gently, and Leticia let go, turning to another one of the guests and making conversation, almost already having forgotten about Dorothea’s existence.

Dr Montague was seated by a window, in one of the leather armchairs. There was a chess set in front of him and Dorothea took the seat across him, extending her hand, which he took - startled, at first - but in a very polite manner. He looked tired, wary.

“Dr Montague, I’m afraid we haven’t met. I’m Dorothea Eilhart.” She leaned against the armchair, her index finger tapping at her chin. Relaxed, confident, trustworthy; she tried to evoke those feelings in her mannerisms, which was hard but doable. Dorothea knew the world was easily subdued if one knew how to see the patterns in which it worked. “You may have met my uncle, perhaps? Duke Bryce Eilhart?”

“Oh, yes. Yes! How is he? In good health, I hope?” The man smiled, but his daemon stood in his chest pocket, watching Dorothea and Astraeus with caution.

“Certainly. Not that these times are any beneficial to anyone’s health, but he is doing well.”

“These times? You mean the war, my lady?”

She laughed, quietly and pleasantly, like an indulged child. He frowned, but he smiled to match her demeanor, unsure of himself.

“War? Yes, the _war_. One could hardly call it that, however, when there are no visible enemies, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, the Magisterium has reason to believe Lord Asriel is a dangerous heretic, or so I hear.”

“Which is silly, don’t you think? How can a single man be such a threat to the almighty Magisterium?” Dorothea smirked, running her finger on her cheek, before resting her arms on the armrests. “Especially a man like Asriel, who has nothing but his wit.”

“You know him personally, my lady?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, and while Asriel has an admirable willpower, I hardly think a whole army is necessary to put him down, wouldn’t you agree?” She chuckled and as expected, Montague smiled, faintly, mimicking her good humour.

“Yes, I wonder.” His eyes scanned her face, trying to detect something. He was suspicious now, she could tell, perhaps thinking she was trying to set him up for trouble. “The Magisterium is nothing but persistent, if anything.”

“Persistent?” She chuckled, bitterly, then looked at him with a serious expression. “I think the word you’re looking for is _oppressive._ ”

His face darkened and he made a gesture to leave.

“This is dangerous talk, my lady. If you’ll excuse me--”

He was almost getting up when she leaned forward and put her hand on his chest, to stop him. She was careful enough not to touch the spot where his daemon was, and she looked him in his eyes, serious.

“Dr Montague, I hear you’re in trouble, and I hope you can hear what I have to say.”

He slowly backed down to his chair, watching her every move. They were alone in the study, although the doors were open to the salon. She leaned against her seat again.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you no harm. We have a mutual friend who explained your situation to me. You see, your friends within the Magisterium have a considerable group of enemies; I represent one of these enemies, and we heard you were supplying them with raw materials for weapon development.”

“I was--”

“No need to explain.” She raised her hand in a pacifying gesture. “As I said, our mutual friend already did so and I believe her. But the point remains that, victim or not, your supplies are creating a big rift in the politics of the Church. Right now, they are in a cold conflict between themselves and we are about to get caught in the middle of it.”

He didn’t say anything, instead looking outside the window, avoiding her gaze. His shoulders were slouched and he seemed meek in comparison to the other times she had seen him. _A guilty man_ , she thought. Regret could wear down even the strongest of men.

“I am here because I want your help in delaying the CCD’s efforts.” She said, quietly, watching him closely. He moved his eyes to see her, and he bit the inside of his mouth before speaking.

“I can’t.” His voice broke.

“As long as you’re breathing, you are in a position to do something about it. I understand your family is what concerns you, correct?”

“Yes. I have two girls, twins, and my wife has a very fragile health. I can’t afford to place them in danger.”

“What if I could offer them protection?”

He shook his head, pressing his fingers anxiously. Dorothea glanced around the room before continuing.

“Not much I can do about you, I’m afraid that you are already in too deep, but I can make sure your family is outside the CCD’s reach. We could send them to live somewhere in America, a nice and quiet place; if we do everything right, the CCD won’t even look at you. They’ll be busy fighting against the Society of the Work of the Holy Spirit, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“How can you be sure you can protect them?”

“Sureness? No such a thing. But we have a plan in motion, that if it works, could help throw away any suspicion they might have of you assisting resistance forces, and then your family would be safe. But it’s a gamble, of course, I wouldn’t want to lie to you about this.”

“I see. And the price for this… assistance?”

“We want access to the materials you’re shipping to the CCD. We want to sabotage it in order to gain time to figure out what exactly is happening in Geneva at the moment.” Dorothea sighed. “The less you know the better, as I’m sure you understand.”

“You ask too much of me, Lady Eilhart, and I’m not sure I can comply.”

“You’re afraid.” She said, matter-of-factly.

“Indeed I am. You must understand why I can’t help you. I have to think of my family first, and foremost.”

“Think of the men and women taken by the CCD on a daily basis. Think of how afraid they must have felt and think of how they did not have the same opportunity you’re having right now.” She intertwined her fingers, watching the man shake his head, ashamed but adamantly scared. “Think of their families too. You are not alone in this scheme, I guarantee you.”

“I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I have a family and a life I must protect and there is nowhere in this world that the CCD couldn’t find them.”

That much was true, in some ways. If the CCD really wanted to punish Montague, they would stop at nothing, even with the thin connections they had in other continents. 

“And who will protect you when the Society tries to interfere with your business?” She whispered, more like a hiss than anything. “Do you think they will take any chances in letting you continue to help their rivals?”

“No, I don’t. The Society, however, tends to be more reasonable and less belic than our Consistorial Court friends.” Montague shook his head and his daemon whispered something in his ear that made him hesitate. Dorothea felt tense; now that he knew she was an anti-Magisterium person, lots of things were at risk. Not that he would live long; if she couldn’t turn him, he would be dead by the end of the month, at least. Nugent would take no chances; he never took any chances. “I’d rather let them kill me than let them hurt my family. I am sorry, I truly am, but I cannot take up on your generous offer.”

Dorothea sighed, heavily and Astraeus chirped quietly.

“Could you at least explain why the CCD targeted you?” Dorothea asked, vehemently and Dr Montague adjusted his collar, uneasy. “With all due respect, but you’re far from the type of person one would have expected them to chase after.”

“Oh, yes. The Society had dealings with me, they prefer to buy outside Switzerland in order to strengthen their influence and good will with other countries.” He leaned back on his chair. “But the CCD came to me after they were denied a business deal with a massive corporation. They weren’t pleased but they didn’t have much of a choice. The only place the Magisterium seems to have very little influence over is among money.”

“This corporation… They refused a deal? Why?”

“I have no idea. They aren’t notorious for well, _anything,_ really. They’re as low-key as one might imagine a big company like that can be. Alas their perks ended up being my… demise, so to speak.” He swallowed hard and used his handkerchief to tap the sweat from his forehead. “I assume the CCD came to me because, other than my family, my business is notorious for its discretion and they were insistent that this business should be dealt quietly.”

“I see. And you won’t tell me what the raw materials are or what they are meant for, will you?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. I don’t deal with the merchandise itself, I simply handle the business deals.”

“That company, the one who refused them, who are they? What do you know of them?”

“Thuringia Potash, I believe they’re called. They’re a beast that deals in anything you can think of. Massive company, they mostly deal in weapons manufacturing, but they seemed to have gotten a taste for the pharmaceutical business. That painkiller… Trep-- trep something. That made them a lot of money. It doesn’t surprise me they said _no_ to the CCD. They have enough money to buy any sort of amnesty.”

“But why refuse a deal like that? It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“As I’m sure you will agree, my lady, CCD business hardly ever makes any sense.”

Dorothea nodded, lost in thought. After a moment, she stood up and watched Dr Montague, looking down on him, metaphorically and literally.

“Well, I appreciate the intel you shared. Unfortunately, if you won’t let me, there isn’t much I can do for you.” She shook his hand, polite, but her gaze was firm. “I wish you the best, Dr Montague.”

He barely nodded, lost in his sorrows and Dorothea left him to his woes.

*******

She found a place on the couch, next to a painter who didn’t look twice at her, deeply focused on his conversation with a man on the armchair close to him. Dorothea tried not to brood on her place, her chin resting on the back of her hand, a bored expression in her eyes to conceal how defeated she felt. Since she had failed, she assumed Nugent would find his way to Dr Montague and be harsh about it. It wouldn’t necessarily mean death, but also blackmail or worse.

“It’s not your fault.” Astraeus whispered to her, and she hummed in agreement, but she was lost in her thoughts. She often felt like when Oakley Street stooped to such a level, it meant they were risking losing allies and friends.

She didn’t realise how long she was on the couch, but when she noticed, the man was gone. Dorothea barely had time to leave for another place in the house either, because someone produced a glass of champagne in front of her.

“What is it that you want?” Dorothea barked, accepting the drink, however, and her fingers brushed against the well-manicured hand.

Marisa’s laughter made her whole body reverberate, and she sat beside Dorothea, leaning against the couch, on her elbow. Dorothea didn’t turn to match her pose, instead, watching the people dancing in the other room. They were considerably alone now, except for some people drinking on the far corners of the room.

“How’s Marcel, I wonder?” Marisa sipped her champagne, a twinkle of amusement and malice in her eyes. She was in an awfully good mood, Dorothea noticed, which could only mean someone, somewhere, was getting royally screwed. Marisa’s good mood was always tied with something prejudicial to someone else, even if unintentionally so.

“How the hell should I know about Marcel?” Dorothea growled, finishing her glass and placing it at the coffee table with a loud noise; it didn’t break, but barely so. She turned to face Marisa, her lips tightly pressed. The Golden Monkey reached for Astraeus, almost gently, but the little robin did not buy it, instead perching on Dorothea’s shoulder.

“Please. I heard you’ve come from Geneva quite recently and I doubt you didn’t see him at all.” Dorothea resisted the urge to move uncomfortably at that remark, but Marisa didn’t need that to chuckle. “Oh, you’re so predictable, Dorothea! And Marcel isn’t even worth the trouble of hiding this… affair, whatever you wanna call it.”

“I don’t see how any of that is your business.” Dorothea grinned, bitterly, and Marisa sipped her drink again, slowly. Astraeus’s mind was clear on the thought _I don’t like this at all_ and Dorothea agreed. “Even if I _had_ seen Marcel while I was in Geneva.”

Marisa placed her glass on the coffee table as well, and intertwined her fingers on her lap, resting against the couch. Her lips were twisted in a know-it-all smirk; she suddenly felt ten years younger to Dorothea.

“My, you _are_ touchy about it. But you’re right.” Marisa ran her fingers on her neck, mindlessly. “It is none of my business. I was just curious to see how you would react.”

“I haven’t spoken to Marcel in a while. Conflicting interests, you could say.”

“He didn’t say anything about that.” Marisa hummed, and the monkey turned his face to her, contemplating her own lack of communication with her brother. She didn’t seem pleased that he hadn’t shared information, Dorothea noticed, but it wasn’t an extreme feeling. “Well, enough about Marcel. I saw you chatting with Dr Montague, and I was very curious as to your interest in the man.”

“Again, none of your concern.” Dorothea allowed her tone to gain a slight hint of amusement. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you either ask me for a favour or try to intimidate me into giving you something? We both know this is why you’re here.”

Marisa hummed, entertained.

“Marcel was right. I _did_ underestimate you, didn’t I?” Her tongue slid through her lower lip, and she squinted, faintly, watching Dorothea like a predator. Astraeus tried to tell her to change her posture, behave more meekly, but she ignored him. “Yes. You’re _good_. And here I spent the last twelve years thinking you were a bloody idiot. Now, be honest: Montague. What is it you want with him?”

Dorothea pondered, for a moment. To tell the truth and risk everything, including Marisa betraying her and alerting the CCD to her activities; to lie and lose the chance of getting information out of her. She clearly had some grasp on the subject, though it was hard telling how much.

“The CCD is up to something.” She said, at last, feeling an enormous sense of dread when Marisa’s smile turned wide and vicious and almost animalistic. “Montague has ties with them that I need to sever in order to figure out what they are plotting.”

“They are _always_ plotting something. It’s what they _do._ ” She shook her head, moving her curls graciously. She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, clearly bored. “Even if you found a way to stop them, they’d have another project already on the works, three more ready to start.”

“You’re one to talk. Wasn’t your project one of these projects?”

“Please, the CCD doesn’t have the intellect to think those things through; they were afraid of Dust and I presented a solution. They were too scared to get their hands dirty, so I proposed I dirtied mine.” She breathed out. “You should be able to see how that was the sensible choice to make.”

“You were killing children, Marisa.” Dorothea hissed through her teeth and Astraeus chirped, safe from his spot on her shoulder.

The monkey growled, but Marisa rested her hand on his head to steady him.

“I wasn’t _killing_ anyone. We were studying Dust, and unfortunately the process was yet to be refined enough to make sure they survived all the time.” Marisa frowned at Dorothea’s disgusted face. “It’s how experiments work. Trial and error.”

“You don’t have a single shred of regret, do you?” Dorothea spat, and she began to get up. Marisa seized her wrist, however, and pulled her down, close enough that she was breathing on Dorothea’s face. There was a moment’s struggle, while Dorothea tried to get away from the grip. “If you know me so well now, I suppose I don’t need to advise you to take your fucking hands off me.”

Marisa held her tight for a moment, their eyes locked on each other, and while Dorothea had a strong will - especially now that she didn’t have to hide from Marisa anymore - she could still feel the threatening presence her friend had. The grip grew loose, then; Marisa let her go and stood up, speaking close to her now.

“I suppose I ought to say goodbye, for old times’ sake. I’m leaving tomorrow, for _Geneva._ ” She said, adjusting Dorothea’s necklace deliberately. Dorothea slapped her hand away. “Not that I owe you anything, but giving the circumstances, I suppose I have some degree of respect for you.”

“Right, and I was born yesterday.” Dorothea shook her head, watching Marisa help the monkey climb back to his place on her shoulder. “This has something to do with Lyra, doesn’t it?”

“Hm, Lyra. That’s all everyone talks about these days.” Marisa chuckled, but Dorothea finally sensed something odd about her. She was fidgety, anxious. “I don’t care anymore about Lyra. Perhaps you were right, and I was simply in denial about the girl.”

“I _was_ right, you have no skill for motherhood, but I don’t believe you. Not too long ago you were hunting the girl with all the might of the Church, and now you claim you don’t care?” Dorothea clicked her tongue. “No. Something here isn’t right, Marisa.”

Mrs. Coulter sighed, and Dorothea realised she seemed on edge. Marisa adjusted her own hair with the tip of her finger, and looked at Dorothea, up and down. She was assessing her, her worth, if she deserved to know the truth.

“I’ve waited too long. The girl… She takes too much after Asriel. I’ve no interest in lost causes, you of all people should know that.” There was some degree of truth in that, Dorothea sensed it, but how much and where, she could not say.

Marisa had always been unreadable, at least to her; the only person that could reach and understand her was Asriel, but Asriel was gone, as well as Lyra. All of them had been in the North, but the only one who had returned was Marisa. _Fitting,_ Dorothea thought. The only person who would never help her.

“You spoke to him, didn’t you?” Dorothea poked at her, knowing well that could end up badly, but not resisting it. Marisa had travelled North to sentence Asriel to death, Marcel had told her that much. She had been _there_. “To Asriel. You talked to him, before he vanished, didn’t you?”

“Why would I?”

“You _did._ ” Dorothea felt that pointless sting of hope burning inside her when the monkey made a noise of impatience. It meant Marisa was lying, or at least that was what Dorothea assumed. “You know where he went. What happened there, Marisa? Where is he?”

For a moment, Marisa’s mind seemed to flicker, doubting her own actions, pondering what to do. Dorothea thought she could nearly see the gears inside of her functioning, like clockwork, smooth and fast. Then, she smiled, full of malice and that hint of whimsical aura that seemed to loom over her. She walked away, her head looking over her shoulder, at Dorothea, smiling, before she turned and made her way to the other room, disappearing in the crowd.

Dorothea couldn’t know at that time, of course, but that was the last time she saw Marisa; and neither could she have known that ghostly smile would haunt her forever.

***

Around four in the morning, most of the guests had already left, the ones left behind being the closest friends of either Leticia or Bernard or both. Dorothea, among them, was slouched on the loveseat at the balcony, listening to the soft and melancholic tune coming from inside the house. Her half-empty glass of wine was dangerously tipping from her fingers and she was stuck in a state of daydream, sulking over her failure with Dr Montague.

“My, my, how the mighty have fallen.” Bernard Vaughan’s voice made her already aching head hurt more. She didn’t bother looking at him, instead waving her hand for him to leave which, of course, he promptly ignored.

“Leave me be, Ben. I haven’t the mood to deal with you right now.” She scoffed, watching as he made his way to the balustrade, and leaned against it, observing her. He was tall, athletic but not exactly strong, with a strong jawline and cheekbones and air of eternal youth. By all accounts he was handsome, but Dorothea simply disliked him for reasons that varied. Ultimately, it was his profiteering attitude that annoyed her whenever he was around.

“You’re always so rude, Dorothea.” He sipped his drink, and she became uneasy, so she sat straight and stared him down. His beautiful lynx daemon was licking her paws, not minding the conversation at all.

“What do you want, Bernard?” She hissed, and he opened his mouth to say something snarky, by the look of the grin on his face, but she raised her hand, interrupting. “And don’t say you don’t want anything. That’s very unlike you.”

He finished his drink and placed the glass on the balustrade.

“I hear you’ve been having trouble with old Montague.” His witty attitude was irritating, but Dorothea didn’t move, nor acknowledge him. Astraeus flew to her shoulder, and they both tilted their head to feign confusion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly, I don’t think I care.”

“Come now, Dottie, no need to be so nasty. Leticia told me you’ve been trying to talk to the man, and his… _unfortunate_ situation with the Magisterium is quite known by most people in Parliament. No harm, no foul, I promise you.”

Dorothea breathed out, exhausted. Whenever Bernard said that, it usually meant the opposite. She brushed her thumb against her eyebrow, thinking, Astraeus’s thoughts slipping into hers and making a mess that only they could sort out. How much does he know? _What is he after?_ Is he trustworthy? _Definitely not!_ But what does he want?

 _Be blunt_ , Astraeus overwhelmed her at last, and Dorothea stood up and stopped by Bernard’s side, watching the view of the city while he kept his eyes on the door.

“Get to the point, Ben.”

“Rumour has it you have some solid acquaintances in the Magisterium.” He chuckled when she moved, uncomfortable, looking away from him, trying to hide her expression of misery. “Now, don’t be ashamed. We all have our weaknesses and, I know you might disagree, but the Magisterium _is_ the future. Anyone who wants to be anyone must know that.”

“You think I care about political influence?” She turned back at him, frowning.

“I think you’re a sordid woman and you go to any lengths to make sure your views are protected. Hence Montague, and why I’m here.” His eyes were stuck in the distance, and Dorothea turned over her shoulder to see. It was Leticia, laughing and rambling in a fit of passion to another painter Dorothea knew vaguely. “You and I come from the same lot, Dottie. You might be well-bred and born, but we are practical people and practical people _adapt._ We survive at all costs.”

“That’s a high claim, Ben.” Dorothea turned back to the city view and sighed. “I have the feeling this is about Leticia.”

“Of course. She’s a brilliant artist, but like most artists, she doesn’t believe one needs to comply and conform. Which, I’m sure you are aware, goes against what the Magisterium believes.”

“Surely they’re not going to punish her over a few paintings of naked women in sinful poses.”

“That’s not the problem. It goes much deeper than that, in fact.” He lit a cigarette and made a long pause, which Dorothea was sure was meant to keep her on edge. He wholeheartedly succeeded. “You’ve heard about Lord Asriel, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’ve heard about him, yes. Bastard pissed off the Church, alright.” She scoffed, and she turned when Bernard put a cigarette in her mouth and lighted it up, his thumb brushing against her lower lip deliberately. All his cigarettes had mint notes; she blew the smoke into the dawn air.

“That’s one way of putting it. Leticia’s circle had someone who knew someone who was at Jordan College when Asriel came to ask for funds.” Dorothea was suddenly very interested, but she tried to hide it so as to not give him an edge. “Truth be told, I scarcely believe it, but Leticia does and there is where _my_ problem lies.”

“How bad could this rumour be that you’re willing to make a deal with me, of all people?”

Bernard hummed and for a moment she thought he was gonna leave her hanging on purpose. But he smoked some more and the smoke covered his face when he spoke.

“Asriel showed them pictures of a city in the sky. Leticia is obsessed, and with what the rumours of his heresy in the North, she won’t shut up about it. Neither will Geneva, as I’m sure you can imagine, but they whisper whereas my wife has no common sense whatsoever. She has dozens of paintings she has started over this business, she is absolutely mesmerised by it.”

“I see.” Dorothea scoffed, but on the inside she was pondering what she had learned.

 _A city in the sky._ Surely that couldn’t make any sense; it was even harder to imagine Asriel consorting with such business. He was a man more inclined to search for results, active ones, as opposed to the Barnard-Stokes business.

 _Multiple worlds,_ she recollected. Even though she had her doubts, suddenly a lot of the rumours coming from the North started to make some degree of sense. The weather drastically changing, the Magisterium’s rush to find a small army and sending zeppelins right and left in a silent manner. She remembered what her uncle had said, about her explanation to Nugent: how Asriel had likely dropped something into the sky. She still believed the idea was ridiculous, one couldn’t simply drop something _into_ the sky, because the sky didn’t exactly exist, so much as it was a word used to describe the colour of the atmosphere.

 _Suppose Asriel did it, though_ , Astraeus thought to her, and she shuddered. There weren’t enough doctorates in the world that could begin to fathom the action of slicing through what was often called _the fabric of the world._ Sure, there were theories, and more theories, and all of them had been banned or deeply censored by the Church in fear of _something_. Theories and practice, however, were vastly different and usually hindered by different obstacles, most of them being related to how physically possible something was.

“A penny for your thoughts, my dear Marchioness.” Bernard mocked her, but he was watching her with a frown.

“You’ll be very rich, then, for I have many thoughts. None of them are good.” She shook her head, grasping at the balustrade, feeling the breeze as she tried to steady her mind. “Whatever Asriel did, I’m sure we’ll never know. Not that the Church needs proof for arresting people whenever they feel like it.”

“Well, in England they still do, but people disappear in the middle of the night regardless. And, as I’m sure you know, Leticia isn’t a _quiet_ woman.”

“So you’re afraid she’ll wreck your career by being an arrested heretic.”

Bernard scoffed and threw his cigarette stub off the balcony. Dorothea gave him a reproachful glance, while she dropped hers in the nearest ashtray she found, by the loveseat.

“You really think so poorly of me.” He said, almost hurt, except his sardonic attitude never truly disappeared from his face and mannerism.

“I _know_ you, Bernard, and you’re no good.” Dorothea raised her chin and stared him down. He smiled. “Self-serving, careless. Not overall a bad person, but certainly not someone I’d entrust my life to.”

“You don’t believe me, but I love my wife and I would do anything to keep her safe.” There was a flicker of anxiety in his eyes; that was what made Dorothea reconsider. “Sure, the fact she had money made me realise I liked the comforts in life, but I do care for her. And the best way to take care of her, is by making friends with the right people.”

“Which brings us to Dr Montague.” Dorothea crossed her arms over her chest, and her eyes checked the perimeter before speaking again, making sure they were truly alone.

Leticia was surrounded by three or four people, all heavily taken by her conversation. No one was paying attention, and even if they were, Bernard’s flirtatious nature would have been a good excuse for their solitude there. “How much do you know?”

“Not much. The man is absolutely being crushed by the CCD, in fear for his life and that of his family, and Leticia said you wanted to talk to him. I just connected the dots, I suppose.”

“Damn it, Leticia!” Dorothea sighed and Ben laughed.

“You see what I’m trying to tell you. She doesn’t think things through, which is why I know one day she will say the wrong thing to the wrong person and there I will be, watching my wife being arrested over a silly comment.”

“What exactly do you want from me?”

“I’ll help you with convincing Montague to help you, and you introduce me to some of your very important friends in the Magisterium. People you think might be worth knowing.” She opened her mouth to say something, but he interrupted her. “Don’t say you don’t have friends, I know you do. You have friends _everywhere_. It’s your most charming feature.”

“Flattered.” She made a disgusted face and shook her head. She could make introductions, of course, but the idea of reaching out to Marcel left her mouth with a bitter taste. _We could ask Auguste Binaud_ , Astraeus reminded her through a thought, and he was right, but her mind always went for Marcel no matter what. “Suppose I help you. What will you do with Montague?”

“Eh, he needs a deep scare. Right now the CCD is just rambling threats over the family, but it is nothing tangible.” Dorothea began to shake her head, already displeased with where that was going. “I still have contacts within the anarchists, I can talk to them. We could take Montague’s girls and make them disappear for a few hours.”

“No.”

“They wouldn’t be harmed. We get someone to walk them around, buy them ice cream. It would be a fun day for them, but Montague would think they were kidnapped. That ought to scare him enough, enough to run into your arms.”

“No.” She slammed her hand on the balustrade. “They’re children. This could end badly. No way.”

“Come now, you know them. Montague is a high profile corporate with a dubious background. He is the perfect target for an anarchist group, they’d love the opportunity to fuck with him and his work.”

“I thought Albert said he didn’t want to see you ever again, when you told him to fuck off over that dock workers’ bill. The one you were supposed to help block, you know.” Bernard reached for her neck to put a lock of hair away, but she slapped his hand. He sighed, because Dorothea was immune to his bullshit. “How do you expect they’ll behave when you ask for help?”

“Albert isolated himself with his more radical folk, and they’ve been doing nothing but yell about things at bars, from what I hear. My contacts are on the more reasonable side, we can make this safe.” Dorothea threw him a skeptical glance and he added: “Well, safe _enough._ ”

“That’s a bad idea.” She tapped her fingers on the balustrade, biting her lip. His daemon was now watching her, eager almost. Anxious too. _It seems we’re both in dire need of help,_ she thought.

“What about vandalism?” Astraeus landed on the balustrade, next to her hand, but he spoke to Bernard. He was surprised for a second, but he recovered quickly.

“You want to attack something of his?”

“He supplies raw materials for the CCD, and they are building something with it.” Dorothea nodded at Astraeus; he had a good idea. “I need to stop that supply for long enough for me to discover what the CCD is doing.”

“Wouldn’t attacking him make him think you did it?”

“Possibly, he knows that’s what I want. If you could persuade him, though, to give access to the anarchists to destroy the cargo. Something elusive like that--”

“He wouldn’t necessarily be blamed and you will get what you want, which is chaos.” Ben said, rubbing his neck. Dorothea opened her mouth to protest his comment, but gave up on it halfway there. He had a point. “Quite a gamble, of course, but clever. I’ll reach out to my contacts, see what I can do.”

He gave her a meaningful glance and she clicked her tongue.

“Fine, I’ll see who I can introduce you to. It’s not like I know that many people.” She sighed when he told her that wasn’t true. “Connection with the Magisterium comes at a high price, and it is unreliable. I hope you know that.”

“I already have my own connections, so yes, I know. And I think you’re overreacting. Not all Magisterium people are bad, you know?”

“I know.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“Everyone is bad, Bernard, it’s just a question of how bad they are.”

“Surely not you.” He mocked, resting his hand on her small back. Any other man would have suffered her wrath because of that, but with Bernard she hardly thought that meant anything. They had known each for a long time, and not a day they had shared together had been spent without him being flirtatious; towards her or anyone. He had never cheated, though, to her surprise; at times she could almost believe he genuinely loved Leticia. W _hat do I know?,_ Dorothea thought. “You were always the high moral one of the group.”

“I’m the worst of them. I’m a hypocrite.”

She backed away from the balustrade, exhausted. Whatever gamble she was doing here had better pay off or else, she would be in deep trouble. At the end of the day, she felt like Bernard was right: she was a sordid woman, and she had just risked a lot for something she couldn’t quite tell what it was.

“High rewards.” Astraeus told her, when she walked away, fetching her purse and her coat on her way out.

“True, but if we lose--”

She didn’t bear to finish that sentence.


	24. all that remains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The events from now on happen simultaneously to The Amber Spyglass.**  
> 

_Into this wild Abyss, the wary Fiend_  
_Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,_  
_Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith_  
_He had to cross._  
**John Milton**

The boat was docked alongside the riverbank of the Thames, tied up to a wooden platform that was damp and darkened by the grime. There were seven boats docked there, moving with the river’s rhythm, steady but slow.

“I’m looking for Coram van Texel.”

He heard her before he had seen her. Sophonax stood up, and Coram followed, nowhere near as agile as his daemon, but he compensated that by being wiser. With the help of his cane, he walked down from the bow back to the main deck, and while he did not recognise the voice, Sophonax saw her clearly.

“It’s Dorothea.” She announced solemnly, observing as the figure of a woman in a colourful orange coat clumsily made her way to his boat, jumping through the other two in between. She was usually agile, but boats were a foreign territory to her, he knew.

Coram relaxed. He had expected trouble ever since they had returned to London, two days prior, dropping off the children who belonged to that city. There were thirteen of them, not to mention the ones that didn’t know because they were too young. They would have to go around and ask, which was not an easy task.

This was a job for the police, of course, but they were not reliable and John Faa had been wary of leaving these children to their fate. Alas, they had been stuck in London without knowing what to do, and he reached out to his old friends at Oakley Street. No doubt word had gotten to the high circle of agents and workers, and no doubt Dorothea had become aware of the presence of Gyptians in the city. She always made a point of keeping herself informed about everything.

Before Coram could walk too much, Dorothea hurried and jumped to his boat, wearing comfortable shoes with thick heels and she approached him quickly, helping him lean against the starboard’s gunwale. Coram rather liked her; she was kind and witty and dedicated to her cause. The world could have used more people like her.

“How do you do, Miss Eilhart?” He said, amused, while she helped him, holding his cane and looking for anything sturdy for him to sit on. She found boxes of wood nearby, and helped him sit.

“I’m fine, Coram. Sorry to barge in like this,” she said, holding his hands after she sat across him, leaning on her knees. “But I had to come when I heard you were here.”

“Lyra is not with us.” He said promptly, but she shook her head, while Astraeus greeted Sophonax with a bop on the nose.

“I know. There has been no sign of her, and I’m worried but I expect we will hear from her soon.” She flexed her fingers and Coram saw she was trying to find the right words.

It was unlike Dorothea to be so hesitant and cautious, but he hadn’t seen her in a few years; she had changed, considerably, although her playful nature still glistened in her eyes whenever she blinked in his direction. Her eyes, however, were dark and gloomy too underneath that.

“Speak your mind, gal. You seem worried.”

“I am. About Lyra, about these... Magisterium news we have been receiving.” She couldn’t know if he did know about those news, but she was guessing - correctly - that he did. Coram nodded vigorously or as vigorously as a man of his age and health could manage. “All these rumours, they unnerve me. It’s the silence, however - Asriel’s silence, that is - that has brought me here.”

Coram waited patiently for her words. He had a range of ideas of what she was gonna ask, and he had prepared certain answers. He didn’t know much; Asriel had made a cut in the sky and crossed, with Lyra likely following him. Everything else was rumour and speculation, no certainty, but then again these were business that could not afford certainty.

She finally reached for something inside her pocket and produced a small letter that had been crumpled to fit her coat’s inner pocket. She humbly offered him the paper, her fingers shaking slightly. Her daemon landed on her extended wrist and chirped when Coram reached for the letter. It was a quiet, melancholic chirp; the saddest tune in the Empire.

“It’s a letter. To Asriel.” She explained when Coram put the letter inside his own coat. She intertwined her fingers on her lap again. “I haven’t heard from him in a long time and that is unlike him, in a way. He never truly stays out of reach, never like this before and I’m not sure what to think.”

“You think he may be dead?” Coram said, matter-of-factly. Dorothea hummed with understanding, but she shook her head, Astraeus now on her shoulder.

“No. I have a feeling that much would be known to us, if he was dead. He is gone, though, isn’t he?”

Coram nodded, faintly, and she scoffed.

“Of course. Off chasing tales, no doubt.” She watched the river flow for a while and Coram observed her quietly. She looked exhausted, emotionally more so than physically, as if twenty years had passed for her soul while her body obeyed the laws of nature. She turned back to face him and smiled when she noticed him watching her. “I’m alright. I don’t look like I am though, do I?”

“I didn’t say anything.” He jested.

“But you were going to. I’d be surprised if you didn’t; not the first one this week to make a comment on the fact I look like I just survived a war.”

She sighed, heavily and stood up, standing her soft hand to Coram, who shook it. He looked her in her eyes and felt sorry for her loneliness.

“You once told me a letter in Gyptian hands will reach anywhere and anyone. I’m hoping you weren’t just entertaining me with stories.” She smiled, weakly and Coram hummed a laugh.

“That’s very much true, miss Eilhart.” He tapped his chest, where the letter was being kept now. “Once we make our way North again, I shall do my best to make sure this letter reaches Lord Asriel, I promise you.”

“Then I’m glad I came to you.” She nodded. “Know that I’m in your debt, Coram. Anything you need, just let me know.”

“I don’t suppose you can stay for a bit of idle gossip and a cup of coffee?” He smiled, tapping her hand gently and she squeezed his bony fingers in the same manner. “You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

“I could use a stiff drink, alright.” She hummed a laughter. “But I can’t. I already ditched a count to come here, and my uncle will have me skinned alive if I miss another Very Important Appointment.”

“I’m sure the Duke is not that demanding.”

“The way he acts with me, you’d think I am his heir! Can you imagine that? Me? A Duchess?” She pretended to scoff and brushed her coat. “Anyway, thank you for your help Coram. I can only hope the ghost of Asriel’s sins won’t come haunting me in the near future.”

She turned to leave, agile, and he watched her go with an unusual sadness. He touched the spot where her letter to Asriel was, feeling the weight of the world suddenly. In the distance, he saw as Dorothea jumped back to the ground, her daemon fluttering behind her. Against the grey and cloudy city, they were a spark of colour and life.

“Poor woman. She seemed lost.” Sophonax said, resting on his lap to help keep him warm. He hummed in agreement.

“Asriel was like family to her, it’s not a surprise she looks so abandoned.”

“Are we delivering the letter?”

“We’ll try.” Coram mumbled, tapping his finger against his chin. “We’re bound to return North soon, to look for Lyra and the others. If we can, we’ll deliver it.”

Later that day, he placed the letter inside a wooden box in his cabin, not before reading it. It was an old Oakley Street habit, one that Dorothea might have expected, but she was desperate enough to not care; he didn’t even do it out of disrespect, but he was curious to see what she had written to Asriel, who was a man so out of touch with reality sometimes that it was difficult to see how the two of them could be friends at all.

 _Where are you?_ She went on, her calligraphy rushed and eager, ink smudging the paper here and there. A woman whose codes were neat and flawless, but now her words were mumbled, confused. _Where have you gone to? Do you need my help?_ Her words moved Coram deeply, especially because they would have been a great amusement to Asriel, a man who despised clinginess. He had liked her, of course, but as much as Asriel liked anyone--

“That’s not true.” Sophonax interjected. “Rumour has it he always took care of her.”

 _There is a war coming,_ Dorothea went on. _I’m awfully scared, Asriel._

She hadn’t looked scared when Coram saw her, but then again, there was a reason she was an excellent agent for the Office. She would never show her fear, no matter what. It was a feeling reserved solely for her own privacy and for people like Asriel, who she held in high regard enough to be worthy of her deepest fears.

Coram closed the letter neatly, sealing it again with wax. They returned North a week later or so, and promptly followed their journey. He waited patiently for the moment he would have the opportunity to hand Dorothea’s letter to Asriel, or anyone that could give it to him, but that moment never came. It would never come, but Coram never made peace with that. Neither would Dorothea, as Sophonax reminded him; he was old, he would eventually forget about that or simply pass away, getting rid of the regrets of a mortal life; but Lady Eilhart was still young and still doomed to a life of remorse. It was not fair, but such was the way of life.

The letter remained in his wooden box for a decade and more, having been opened once and then never again.

***

Alma rearranged the papers in her desk, trying to look nonchalant as Pierre Binaud’s voice breached through Marcel Delamare’s office doors, echoing through the small corridor leading to the reception, where her desk was located. The man screamed like a wounded pig, in a French so rough she could scarcely understand him; the doors muffled his words enough that she could barely make out what he said, but some words were audible enough. None of them were good, in Alma’s opinion.

“I’m surprised Delamare puts up with this.” She whispered to Aion, who was seated at the edge of her desk, watching for anyone coming for the entrance doors. But La Maison Juste was fairly empty that afternoon, with the exception of the loud and rude Pierre Binaud, a rather different specimen than his calm and temperate brother, Auguste.

“I’m not. I bet he lies in bed every night, plotting ways of ripping Binaud’s heart. All he wants is an opportunity.” Aion said, his voice overwhelmed by the muffled screams.

 _“You were supposed… the materials we need!”_ Binaud screamed and Alma was amused over the fact she couldn’t hear Marcel’s reply. He has some nerve, I’ll give him that, she thought.

“Do you think he is just biding his time?” She put a clip on a stack of paper, invoices for the spendings of the month by the staff. Not much of her paperwork was fun or useful at all; some days she wondered if she shouldn’t be elsewhere, being more productive. “Binaud outranks him.”

“Yes, he does, a fact he is always reminding Delamare of.” Aion looked at her; they were having less arguments recently, given they had to devote their entire willpower to being Alma Bertrand, meek secretary. It was not the same as friendship, but at least they weren’t fighting.

Delamare was a keen man, keener than Alma had assumed; she expected Dorothea’s involvement with him had made her overstate his skills and temper, but Alma had been terribly wrong. More often than not, Delamare approached her randomly, asking random things and she had to adapt accordingly. Once, she had a feeling he had someone follow her home, and he asked her on the day after, why she frequented a public bar with her CCD secretary friend. Alma had, with all her eloquence, explained that it was cheap and mostly her own friend’s idea, since she was out to find herself a beau. Marcel didn’t seem to understand it, but he seemed to have let that go.

“Did you hear that?” Aion turned suddenly, approaching her through the desk; she turned her head to the corridor; she could see the door from where she stood, closed, but Binaud’s voice made it feel like it was vibrating.

“Yes. Bomb.” She swallowed dry, exchanging wide glances with her daemon. Their hearts were racing. “He said _bomb_.”

They tried to listen more closely, but the door opened suddenly, and Alma startled in her place, Aion quickly returning to his spot on the desk, watching the entrance. No one seemed to have noticed, however.

“This is on you, Delamare!” Binaud screamed, and Alma saw from the corners of her eyes, the bulky figure of Binaud pointing his finger in Marcel’s face.

She often thought Delamare was cold, insensitive, but in that moment she admired his cold blood. He didn’t flinch for a moment, not even when Binaud’s saliva reached his cheek. Marcel slowly reached for his handkerchief in his pocket, and tapped the spot, still making eye contact.

“You could have talked them into the deal!” Binaud went on, and when he took a step forward, Marcel’s owl opened her wings and came to his shoulder, a threatening pose that made Binaud take a step back. “Now, we are delayed, since those fucking anarchists blew up the warehouse with half our stock!”

“ _That_ is an English problem, not mine.” Marcel said, matter-of-factly. “In case you have forgotten, per the CCD’s request, _La Maison Juste_ has no jurisdiction in Brytain.”

Binaud’s face was absolutely red. Alma was watching everything from the corner of her eyes, resisting the urge to look closely and be caught by Delamare’s keen eyes. She rearranged the pen holder again; Aion grabbed the edge of the desk, anxious; right across them, was an important CCD man yelling at another but less important man. That hardly ended well.

“The company--” Binaud began again, nearly breathless, which gave Marcel the opportunity to interrupt.

“-- is not mine. Nor is it under my care, another thing you seem to have forgotten.” Marcel used his hand to open the door fully, showing Binaud the corridor. He gestured outside. “You _know_ who to talk to about the company.”

Binaud shook his head, his serpent daemon slithering from his sleeve.

“She is an unreasonable woman, Marcel. She isn’t listening to me, and you well know that.”

“What do you want me to do?” Marcel’s voice took a hint of amusement. “Smother her with a pillow? I don’t think so. If she doesn’t want to help you, then there is nothing I can do about it, you _well_ know that.”

For a moment, Alma thought Binaud was going to punch Marcel, but he seemed to have thought things through.

“This failure is on your head.” He said, at last, storming off.

Alma anxiously watched him leave, and she was so caught up she didn’t see Delamare approach her desk.

“How much of that did you hear?” He asked, matter-of-factly, not a nerve under strain. “Don’t. Lie.”

She straightened herself in her chair, and looked at him, nervous. Resting her hands on the desk, she breathed in before speaking.

“Something about a bomb. The door muffled most of his words, but I heard that. Materials destroyed, something about a deadline. A mention to a child, but maybe I misheard that, I don’t know.” She scratched her eyebrow, while Marcel assessed her words. “Anarchists in England. And everything once the door was open, pretty much.”

Marcel hummed, his daemon on his shoulder, his arms crossed over his chest. He watched her, impassive, trying to breach her but failing, or she expected he had failed. He seemed doubtful.

“I am sorry, monsieur.” She added, turning to face him, eyes pleading. She wanted him to pity her, but Aion scoffed at the feeling. Marcel had never pitied anything in his life, ever, they doubted it. “Had I known it was such a secretive subject, I would have left the desk, but I’m alone today, I couldn’t leave the reception on its own. Please, don’t fire me. I really need this job!”

Marcel shook his head and scoffed, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

“Ah, don’t beg, girl. It’s pathetic.” He turned to return to his office, and Alma was prepared to breathe out of relief, when he turned back. “I don’t need to remind you that not a word you heard today leaves these premises, do I?”

“ _Non_ , monsieur. I won’t say anything, I promise.”

“Good. Go back to your work.”

When he returned to his office and closed the door, Alma breathed out heavily, relieved. That had been a close one, and now she was pondering how to make these news reach Dorothea fast.

“He scares you.” Aion said, quietly and amused. Alma scoffed.

“More like he _unnerves_ me. Something about him feels odd.”

“You unnerve him too, or that is what his daemon implies.” Aion watched to see if Alma reacted, but she barely noticed what he was implying. “Apparently there was a secretary here that made a move on him.”

Alma raised her eyebrows, unimpressed.

“And here I thought Dorothea was the only woman who liked him.” She jested and Aion clicked his tongue. “What happened to her?”

“He killed her and now drinks wine from her skull.” Aion said dramatically and Alma giggled. He had an intense wariness about Marcel that Alma found unusual, but she knew it was not unfounded.

“Right.”

“He fired her, what else? He likes his staff to be proper, the women especially. It’s no good having a hussy in a holy building.” He examined her modest skirt and blouse and tweed jacket. She looked like the purest of the church girls they walked by on their way to work.

“I’m not gonna make a move on him, and I don’t think he has the slightest interest in me, if that is what is worrying you.” Alma finished piling up the invoices of the week.

“I know, but he is still wary of you.” He paused for a moment, watching the closed door of Delamare’s office. He lowered his voice more. “I think he isn’t buying your naive persona.”

“I don’t think so either. He’s catching up with the fact I’m more clever than I look.”

“You ought to adapt, then.”

“I will.”

At the end of the day, Marcel left his office carrying his suitcase, wearing his coat and hat; he had a grim expression in his face that he concealed as he approached her desk. He graciously slid two white envelopes in front of her.

“I need you to post these two letters, urgently. Can you do this by tonight?” It was barely a question. She nodded, placing the envelopes alongside the other correspondence she needed to deliver.

“Yes, monsieur. As soon as my shift is over, I’ll be on my way to the post office.”

“Good. Have a good evening, Alma.”

She waited until Aion said he was gone for good, lost amongst the pedestrians outside, but she resisted the temptation of opening the letters. It was risky, too risky and she had to warn Dorothea about what she had learned; she couldn’t risk getting in trouble now.

“They’re both for London.” Aion said, examining the address.

One of the letters was addressed to Marisa Coulter, and Alma was not surprised. Marcel had made phone calls during the week, trying to find his sister, but with no luck. A letter seemed a last recourse.

“I wonder who is this one for?” Aion gestured at the second envelope, and Alma took it, read the address and placed it back.

“It’s a hotel, a _fancy_ hotel. This one is for his marchioness.” She finished picking her belongings and placing the correspondence in her bag. “Not a surprise, he wouldn’t dare write to her home address. I doubt he even signed these.”

“I thought they had broken things off.” Aion followed her out of the building, as she locked the doors.

“So did I, which makes his writing more interesting, and I bet it has something to do with what happened today with Pierre Binaud.”

“Those anarchists he mentioned… The materials they destroyed.” Aion exchanged a meaningful glance with Alma, who nodded.

Whatever Dorothea had done to ensure the CCD’s failure was about to catch up with her really soon.

***

“There you go!” René quietly exclaimed as the lock finally yielded to his efforts. He was running out of practice, he realised.

It was a building in Paris, three floors of desks and bookshelves, a place for the Society of the Work of the Holy Spirit to process its bureaucratic paperwork. At night, no one was there of course, but after their last fiasco, he was being extra careful. Dorothea had wanted for him to carry a gun, but he had never fancied guns and he was much more confident in his martial skills, at any rate.

“In and out. We don’t want to linger.” His daemon reminded him, and he closed the door with a soft click and moved about in the darkness.

He had a flashlight, but he used it sparingly, as on the first floor he could be easily seen from the streets. René made his way to the second floor, expertly, moving with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Because he did.

During the evenings, René began to attend a pub downtown where a bunch of Magisterium clerks visited often. Dorothea and her friends weren’t sure what they were looking for exactly, so neither was he, but he was good at recon work. He mingled with these people, wearing a moustache he allowed to grow in the past weeks, and clean and good quality quotes that Dorothea arranged for him.

Eventually he found his target, a talkative young woman who went there every Wednesday and Friday, accompanied by a shy friend who listened expertly to everything she said. René took an interest in the friend, pretty and educated, but he couldn’t approach her; the other one was dealing with the Society’s personal accounts and thus was useful to him. Besides, while the quiet one would have liked this tall, dark and mysterious man, she wouldn’t have taken much interest in René’s persona, the mute librarian, no matter what.

“Where is it?” His daemon said and her voice brought him back to reality.

He had been thinking of the woman again, much to his amusement and sorrow. René hadn’t realised how lonely he had been until he met Dorothea and Alma. Now that they were together, and his sister with him, he had time to realise how much his life had been drenched in solitude. Dorothea had made fun of his clinginess, of course she had, the wicked woman! She would have taken his heart out with her bare hand and crushed it, immediately apologising for it. He had a great respect for her.

René and his daemon found the woman’s desk and leaned forward. It hadn’t been difficult to make her talk about the letters she had received. The Society had been struggling with distributors for a while now or so she had said.

“This one looks interesting.” His daemon handed him an envelope with her mouth.

It had already been torn open, so all he did was unfold the letter carefully.

“ _’We regret to inform all our stock has been bought and our client has also placed another order for more. We won’t be able to meet your request as of now.’_ The CCD is buying literally every scrap of metal they can find.”

“They’re desperate.”

“More like, determined, I think.” He finished the letter and then placed it back in its place.

He looked carefully, but not too slow. Unlike the CCD, the Society was trustworthy and relaxed, they didn’t have security for most bureaucratic buildings. However, René didn’t want to push his luck, not to mention that time was of the essence. Wherever that bomb Alma had learned about was, he needed to find their location soon. There were so many agents moving about in the major pro-Church cities now, that he was sure he had stumbled upon more spies then than ever in his entire life.

He moved through the desks contents, finding nothing but half clues. When he left, an hour and a half later, he knew more than he did before but that was not enough. The bomb was in Switzerland, yes, but he needed to narrow it down. Switzerland was immense and ridden with Magisterium buildings, it could have been anywhere.

For René, an operation given was an assignment that had to be concluded, no matter what. The Muscovites trained their agents to outlive failures, to manage resources in order to succeed at all costs. He felt recently like he wasn’t living up to expectations, not that Dorothea ever said anything. _’We will find another way, don’t worry’_ was what she always said. She was usually right. Dorothea thrived on hope and patience, even if she wasn’t exactly patient herself.

René’s job was to find where the bomb was, while his handler, on a zeppelin to Geneva, was in charge of the much more difficult task of finding out why it even existed in the first place.


	25. the only way out is through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is a MASSIVE chapter, which is why it took me longer to finish.  
> A few considerations:  
> i) I started writing this in 2019, it's one of the first scenes I wrote, and it has been rewritten several times. However, the one thing I did not change was the lockdown that happens in Geneva, and I didn't know at the time that lockdowns would be spread across the globe _now_ but changing this would have forced me to rework a lot of the story, so fair warning, cause I kept it.  
> ii) I don't narrate full torture scenes, but there is some mention to it, as well as some gore. Again, no way around it, so I wrote it as less focused on it as I could.

_let everything happen to you: beauty and terror._   
_just keep going. no feeling is final._   
**rainer maria rilke**

“Out of the frying pan, into the fire!” René whispered, as he approached Dorothea on a bench. He sat beside her, one arm behind her casually. She leaned close to his body and anyone who walked past them, would’ve paid no attention. They looked like a couple enjoying an afternoon at a park, not two spies scouting a target building.

“God, I hate the moustache.” She commented with amusement, her head against his shoulder. They had a somewhat clear view of the building, a CCD logistics office, that Godwin had managed to pinpoint as a good place to find information on their bomb.

René lowered his arm and pulled her close, his hand on her waist. Dorothea crossed her legs and they observed. With his other hand, he played with his moustache, entertained.

“I thought you liked men who look like they have some authority!” He mocked and she shook her head, chuckling, and they watched as a high-ranking official left the building in a hurry, the third man of his rank who did the same that day. “All those officials, rushing with papers and guns. That’s no good, Eilhart.”

“No, it isn’t.” She whispered back and he could tell her mind was drifting from thought to thought. Her daemon chirped and she seemed to wake up. “Did you find good entrance points?”

“Yes, it’s called the front door.” He showed her the copy of the key he had snatched earlier that week. She took the key from his hand and placed it in her purse, with a grin. “Unless you want some climbing, of course.”

“No, thank you. I’m rather indisposed to such things.”

“We’re getting in tonight?”

“ _I_ am, you’re not.”

“Come on, Eilhart, you can’t do this alone.”

“It’s not a risky operation, but if I get caught, there is no telling what they might do.” She sighed. “The CCD is on the verge of going rogue.”

“No good, Eilhart. Either I come or you won’t be getting in.” He made a gesture for her purse, but she took it out of his reach. “Let me help you. You don’t need to be alone.”

It took her some convincing. René wasn’t super familiar with Dorothea, but Glenys Godwin was, and she knew what was going to happen before it even happened. Her telegram was powerful, commanding, polite; she knew Eilhart was stressed and emotionally wrecked, taking unnecessary risks with very little rewards. Worst of all, and this René was familiar with because many agents from his country were like that too, Eilhart was being swallowed by her recent successes. Success made people careless.

They arranged to meet in the same spot, later that night, and René could only hope she wouldn’t ditch him.

She didn’t, much to his surprise. They barely said a word when they met, in the dark, then moved carefully to the building. There were some cars driving by the street, but unless they were unlucky enough that one of the drivers was an employee at the place they were entering illegally, they were as safe as they could be.

“It’s not illegal, we _do_ have a key!” René reminded her with a smirk. Dorothea grinned against her will. She just wanted to get that over with and go home.

They were careful in their search, opening one archive or drawer at a time, looking through file names - and anything that could fit as a codename, which could be anything, really - and fixing everything before opening another one, and by the time they were through the first floor, Dorothea had given up hope.

“Even if there is something here, there is no way we have time to find it.” She whispered, half illuminated by the shy moonlight coming through the windows. Her hands on her hips, shoulders slouched. She seemed tired, René realised.

“Maybe we can--”

“Do you hear that?” Dorothea raised her finger, even though he could barely tell her silhouette apart from the rest. “I think it’s the police.”

There was a faint siren noise, not too close from where they were, but close enough that they could hear them. They approached the window, trying to look outside without being seen, but the streets were mostly empty underneath them. However, on the main street, four blocks away…

“There! Ambulances, I think. Police too, maybe.” René said, and he and Dorothea shared a glance. All they could see was a glimpse of the official lights, faintly illuminating some of the buildings in their eyesight.

“Something’s wrong. We ought to leave here, now!” They began to close the last drawers they had opened and made their way downstairs, to the entrance. “There are at least a dozen cars in that sound. Something happened, must have happened.”

They swiftly made their way outside, locking the door on the way out. They only spoke when they were safely in the dark, at the park.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know. You go back to your room, pack your things, and find a way back to the France border.” Dorothea paced, holding her chin, Astraeus fluttering behind her. “Yes, it’s best you leave as soon as you can.”

“By train? If that is police--” There was a hint of anxiety in his voice, which she heard and acknowledged.

“No, not train. That’s a last resort. Perhaps you can find a boat, someone who smuggles things between the borders.” Dorothea finally stopped. “You find a way out, don’t get caught. Once you’re safe, tell Godwin we couldn’t locate the bomb but something happened in Geneva.”

“What about you, Eilhart?”

She smiled, resting a hand on his arm. Reassuring, but he knew it was meant solely for him and not near the truth of how things were.

“I’m going back to my hotel room, and see if I can find out what happened here.” The sounds were much louder now and a police car rushed through the street nearby them. Not the police, she realised: a CCD official car. “I’ll probably be delayed back to England, make sure to tell her that.”

They said goodbye reluctantly, as neither wanted to leave the other alone without being sure of where to go and what to do and what was happening. Dorothea couldn’t find a cab to her hotel, so she walked a few kilometers, mostly by well lit streets, where people were fast asleep. Some restaurants seemed open but the mood in them was less than pleasant. She thought of approaching them for questions, but decided not to. Curiosity could be seen as hostile, sometimes.

She was almost getting to the stairs of her hotel entrance, when Astraeus noticed the official black car taking over the street for the loading and unloading area. They didn’t know for sure, but she didn’t take any chances, instead moving quietly to the restaurant, trying to look inconspicuous.

“Miss Eilhart!” Came the voice of one of the barmaids, anxious. “Thank the Lord you’re here! You need to leave!”

Dorothea pulled the girl aside, hiding behind a column in the middle of the bar area, where the two men at the reception couldn’t see her. She had paid the girl for information, but she didn’t look like she had proper intel. Her voice came with a warning, her hummingbird daemon fluttering with anxiety. There was a cut on her eyebrow, faint but still bleeding after the girl failed to tend to it properly.

“What happened to you?” She touched the girl’s forehead and she flinched. “Who are those men?”

“They’re here for you! You can’t stay!”

“Why? Nevermind that, did they hurt you?” She tried to steady her anger when the girl nodded. “Bastards. Think they can do whatever they want--”

“Doesn’t matter, miss. They’re CCD. They do what they want.” Her eyes darted around. “They have poor Emiel in that car outside, miss. They think he knows where you went.”

_Fuck,_ Dorothea said under her breath. Emiel had been the reception boy whom she had bribed through her affair with Marcel. He had been loyal and decent, not someone who would have ever been put into CCD custody.

There was nothing to make her mind up about. Those men wanted _her,_ and they would hurt Emiel until he talked - which he wouldn’t, because he didn’t know where she went - or until he died. He could lie, making his situation even worse. The right thing to do was to intervene now while she still could intervene. She felt her gun in her purse, and a cold feeling went down her spine.

“Listen to me, very carefully. You’ll do this one thing for me and then you will take all your things and leave the city for a while.” She oriented her through her contacts in Geneva, to make sure she would have funds to do so. Barmaids weren’t equipped to flee cities on a whim.

Dorothea instructed the girl to bring the men to her outside, as she waited by the car door. She took a look inside, the windows very dark, but saw a glimpse of a terrified Emiel, cuffed and paralyzed.

“It’s going to be alright, Emiel.” She told him, and then looked back at the entrance.

The two men were coming her way, following a terrified barmaid. One of them was tall and strong, powerful shoulders, not matching his leopard daemon; his face was handsome and he looked amiable, which Dorothea loathed the most. The friendly ones were the most dangerous ones, in her experience. The other one was short, skinny, sick looking. He could have easily been a priest but he wore no priest clothes. This one had a rat for a daemon. Astraeus fluttered in her head, and finally perched on top of her hat.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Her voice was steady and calm, although her heart was beating fast. No way to run, now; the only way out was through.

“Lady Dorothea Eilhart.” Said the tall man, his deep voice soothing and polite. “You are wanted for questioning by the Consistorial Court of Discipline.”

“What for?”

“You are believed to be in possession of information that concerns us, including a mild charge of heresy.” He grinned at that. The heresy was very likely just an excuse to give them grounds to arrest her legally or near that.

“Never heard of a mild _heretic,_ sir.” She was speaking in English, a deliberate gesture, because many of the hotel guests were now watching their exchange. “As I’m sure you know, you cannot arrest me. I’m an English citizen.”

“The CCD--” The smaller man began, erratic, but she cut him off. The tall one was in charge, she knew that much.

“--has no authority over my citizenship. As you know, certain treaties assure that English citizens cannot be arrested by the Consistorial Court outside of England. Among other things.” She smiled, lovely, at the man.

The smaller one was furious, the tall one smiled back. She had a shiver down her spine: _he knows._ He couldn’t know for a fact she was a spy, but he had realised she was more than what met the eyes. Normally, at that stage, they would have already arrested their target, but she kept the control of the situation.

“Given the urgency, we cleared with the English headquarters and embassy. They’re aware you’re being brought in for questioning.”

_Bullshit,_ she thought. No way in hell the embassy would have allowed an English marchioness to be arrested like that.

“Please, spare me the lies. You called me a Lady, you know my title, so you know this explanation doesn’t cut it for me.” She gestured with her head at the car behind her. There was a good distance between her and the men. “Let the boy go, and I’ll go with you willingly.”

“You aren’t in a position to bargain, Eilhart.” The tall man said.

She reached for her gun and clicked the safety, aiming at them. There was a fuss around them, people gasping. The smaller man flinched at the sight of the gun, but the other one kept his cool.

“Put the gun away.” He said, calm, but she realised his eyes were alert now.

“No. Let the boy go. He has nothing to do with any of this. You do that and I go with you.”

“And if I don’t do as you say?”

She chuckled, then her face darkened. Astraeus steadied himself on her head. _Be careful,_ he seemed to think.

“I’ll kill your friend, then you, then myself. I don’t know what you want from me, but if I have the information you seek, then it will be lost forever.” She walked away from the car and gestured with her gun towards it. “Let him go, monsieur. You seem like a smart man.”

He pondered for a moment, his colleague clearly unhappy with his attitude. He watched her face, quietly, then nodded and made his way to the car, pulling Emiel out and unlocking his shackles.

“Off you go, boy.” He looked at Dorothea then, as Emiel ran as fast as he could back to the hotel. She could only hope he would be smart and hide as well.

Dorothea lowered her gun and walked to the man. She could run away, but running away wouldn’t do her much good. They could catch up with her, and they could do the hotel staff much harm if they couldn’t find her. 

“I have to say, you are the most unusual prisoner I have ever taken.” The man told her, as he pulled her arms together and tied her wrists in the cuffs. So cordial so _civilised._ She felt sick.

She smiled at him, as if she knew the secret date in which the world would end once and for all, and did not intend to share it with anyone. Horace Montillet felt a shiver down his spine.

“The only way out is _through,_ monsieur.” She told him and he shoved her in the car, unnerved.

***

Alma fidgeted, anxious, looking from her wristwatch to the door of Marcel’s office. Her feet kept tapping on the floor.

“We ought to tell him, he can do something.” She whispered to Aion, urgently, trying to settle her inner conflict, but he resisted. Cautious, as always. Being cautious never paid off.

“Too risky. He might get suspicious.” Aion replied, pacing at her feet, walking in circles around her chair.

“We can’t just leave her wherever she is!” Her voice was slightly high-pitched, but she was whispering still.

“She wouldn’t want us to blow our cover.”

That much was true. Dorothea would have urged them to leave her be and keep themselves safe. Self-sacrifice suited her, but Alma didn’t believe in self-sacrifice; it was as noble as it was pointless.

“No one else is coming for her.”

It was three in the afternoon, and the police had already come by to inform them of the lockdown. Everything would be closed and everyone was to remain at home. _Restoring order_ , that’s what they said, but Alma knew they were just repeating CCD rhetoric. Something had happened six days ago, something that stirred the biggest organization within the Magisterium. The rumour was that someone had held an entire CCD office hostage, and another rumour said a bomb had been found in another. From what she could tell of what she had heard from Marcel on his telephone calls, it had been arson, with at least two victims, in one of the militia outposts in the city. For the first time in a long time, Alma saw _fear_ and doubt in the eyes of the CCD thugs she passed by on her way to work. If not for Dorothea being missing, she would have delighted in that refreshing feeling.

They were going to leave in an hour, to be in lockdown until God knew when, and she had one chance to tell Marcel the rumour she had heard. Dorothea had been missing for almost six days now, René unsure of what had happened, the hotel people refusing to talk to anyone. Her things had been still in her room, salvaged by René before he made his way out of Geneva. No one knew where she was, no one knew what had happened. In England, Glenys Godwin awaited for signs, but Alma knew they were waiting for a body to show somewhere, washed up on the coast, fished out of a river. That was the fate of Oakley Street, they all had to accept that, eventually, no matter how cruel it was.

“No. They wouldn’t kill her just for fun.” She slapped her hand on her desk, and stood up. Aion jumped on the table, and they glanced at each other. “He is her only chance, if that rumour is true. It’s _his_ kind, his people.”

“It’s been six days, Louise.” She shushed him. He sometimes forgot her name, even though they had been using it for some time.

“We heard the rumour yesterday. It must be fresh, if it’s true.”

They nodded at each other, arriving at an agreement. Dorothea had given them purpose, saved them; the least they could do was try and save her back.

Alma marched down the corridor, shaking, terrified of giving herself away to a man as sharp as Delamare. She knocked, but opened the door straight away, and he looked up from his paperwork, his glasses on the tip of his nose.

“What on Earth--”

“Monsieur, I apologise.” She began, knowing he would likely scold her for interrupting him. _Screw this,_ she thought. She didn’t care about _that_ right now. “But I know you’ve been looking for your sister, an English citizen, non?”

“That’s correct.” He changed his posture slightly, dropping his pen and folding his glasses and placing them on the table. His white owl perched on his shoulder, coming from her pole, suddenly. “What do you know about that?’

She made an effort to look tame and not eager. Clever, but not too much. Marcel appreciated temperance and temperance alone, Alma knew this by now. Anything more than that was excess, and anything less was self-pity. He loathed both.

“Not much. I heard a rumour, yesterday, from my friend at the CCD office. She said they’ve been arresting people by the dozen. _Out of control,_ I told her.” Alma took note of Marcel’s smirk when she said that. He appreciated her raw honesty, which he, she had no doubt, considered simple-minded. “She mentioned one of their higher officials arrested a lady. An _English_ lady.”

Marcel didn’t move, but his daemon did. For all intents and purposes, they were both acting like they were talking about Marisa, but when he heard _an English lady,_ he realised it was Dorothea. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, even if Alma was familiar with Dorothea and her unusual position in his life.

“A _rumour_ , you said? How true can it be?” He asked, formally. _Stuck-up bastard,_ Alma thought. Aion fidgeted at her feet, because he agreed with the thought. Any decent man would have stumbled in a passionate demeanor to fix a situation like that, with someone like Eilhart. Not Delamare though, she should have been used to it by now.

“I don’t know, monsieur. But Gene, my friend, she never lies. She can be _wrong_ sometimes, but I don’t think she is now.” Alma changed her stance from one leg to the other. “She said the arrest was unofficial, whatever that meant.”

“What are the charges?”

“She says she thinks it’s heresy--”

“Of course.” He had a hint of amusement in his voice.

“--mild heresy or something. But I heard...” She stopped mid-sentence, unsure if she should tell him this thought. It was a rather controversial statement.

“Go on, Alma. Speak your mind.”

“Well, I _heard_ they use that heresy charge to make unofficial arrests less _unofficial._ ” She swallowed dry and he raised his eyebrows, then shook his head.

“I see. Any idea where they have her?”

“No, monsieur. All I know is that she was arrested at a hotel, a fancy one. _Longemalle,_ I think.”

He didn’t say anything, but hummed. His daemon whispered something. Alma waited patiently, her body almost vibrating of expectation. She had expected him to move at once. Why didn’t he?

“Very well. Thank you for your information, Alma.”

That was her dismissal. He had returned to his paperwork, as she closed her door on the way out. They returned to their desk, defeated. Even if Alma searched for Dorothea herself, on her own, the city was too big and too riddled with Magisterium men that she could not work her way through. One or two, yes, but not all of them. Marcel could have done it much easier and quicker. If Dorothea was alive, time was of the essence.

“We’re better off waiting for her corpse by the river.” Aion said, and although his comment was bitter, he seemed sad. He rather liked Dorothea, they both did.

Alma didn’t reply, shaking her head.

She finished her work load, sealing letters, making sure everything was in order to leave. But when the clock struck four, Marcel was still there and she wasn’t sure what to do. Usually, when he stayed late, she either stayed with him or he would go and dismiss her. He had done neither.

He came out thirty minutes later, Alma quietly waiting for him, and he had his coat halfway on his body, his hat poorly fitting, his daemon flying after him. He never seemed so unlike himself as in that moment. For a while, he seemed more like a man and less like a mannequin, or whatever it was that he looked like. _An idea,_ Aion thought. Marcel was the embodiment of an idea of what a man should be. She stood up, her bag on her shoulder and they made their way to the doors.

As she locked them, his daemon whispered to her, from his shoulder.

“Go home. Lock your doors. Those policemen were lying. This isn’t a harmless lockdown.”

“How so?” She whispered back, startled because his daemon only ever spoke to her to give commands, like in that moment, but that command was unusual.

“Earlier this week, the CCD lost it’s leadership in what they’ve called a terrorist attack. Whether that is true or not, doesn’t matter, because there was also a rather tangible arson in one of their headquarters, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. They’re hunting someone, and you’re better off barring your door and not leaving at all.” He adjusted his hat. Everyone on the streets seemed in a hurry to get home soon; they didn’t look at Alma and Marcel. “Do you live alone?”

“No, monsieur. There are other girls in the same house.” She finished with the lock and turned to face him. He seemed tense. “Six girls, five bedrooms. I’m as safe as one can be. Our landlady is very scary too. We think she has a gun.”

“Good. Don’t think too much of this kindness. You gave me good information, so I’m returning the favour.” He warned her before walking away. “I’ll send word for you when we go back to work.”

Alma scoffed, watching him mingle with the pedestrians, walking on a path opposite to his apartment. He was headed somewhere else.

“I hope he is looking for her.” Aion said, climbing to her shoulder.

“So do I.”

***

“You have a lot of willpower, Lady Eilhart.” Montillet said, washing his bloodied hands on a basin next to his tools: a hammer, pliers, whips with thorns, an anbaric cables he could tie to her skin. He’d been through them all, many times, much to Dorothea’s regret.

She lasted longer than she had expected.

On her chair, she was a bloody mess, literally. There had been so many wounds to her face, that blood had dried and bled again, turning it into a mess. She couldn’t see from right eye, so swollen she could scarcely tell if it was still there. Some of her fingers had been recently broken, a few hours ago, and the stench of blood was nauseating. She had thrown up on herself at one point, but given her current state, that was the least of her problems.

“One does wonder if you have some involvement with a resistance group.” Montillet said, turning to face her, his clothes as messy as hers.

He had changed a few times since their arrival, but Dorothea couldn’t tell how long ago that was. There were no windows in that room, dark and damp and illuminated solely by a single anbaric light, that flickered intentionally, to unrest her. Astraeus was in so much pain from her wounds that they didn’t even bother putting him in a cage; he could barely leave the floor.

“Now, we can spend days doing this, I can break all your fingers, your other knee. I can do a lot. You wouldn’t believe the things the Church has taught me.” Montillet kneeled before her. “Tell me where the girl is.”

“For the hundredth fucking time, I don’t know.” Dorothea mumbled, her throat sore. She was parched, hungry, exhausted. She had eaten some soup, but barely. She didn’t trust anything coming from them.

“Yes, you do! You were friends with that heretic Belacqua, and the Coulter woman, and you spent a considerable time around the girl. Where has she gone to? Who has her?” He held her neck, tightly. “Tell me, or else I’ll bring you to the water tank again!”

He might have seen the fear on her eyes, because he relaxed his grip, a smirk on his lips. She spat blood on his face and he struck her down.

“I don’t know where she is, nor her mother, nor her father.” She whispered. “But even if I did, you couldn’t possibly make me talk.”

“When you say things like this, it’s when I know you’re lying.” He used his handkerchief to wipe the hand he used to strike her. Dorothea felt blood run from her mouth and nose and eyes. It dripped on her legs, already quite stained from the blood.

“I’m not lying, but you’re a fucking idiot who refuses to listen.”

He struck her down again, but when she winced from the pain, the door opened.

“Step away.”

Montillet turned to face the newcomer. Dorothea raised her head with difficulty. The two men were discussing in a rush, in French; the pain made it hard for her to understand well. Montillet left then, unwillingly though. She was left alone with Marcel.

“Not you, for fuck’s sake.” She mumbled, feeling his daemon reach for Astraeus on the floor.

Marcel kneeled before her, not wearing his suit as usual, just a plain white shirt and grey trousers. He looked like he hadn’t slept the past twenty-four hours, his hair was unkempt. He had a key in his hands that he used to open her shackles, from her ankles and wrists.

“What have they done to you?” He asked, more methodically than emotionally, his hands on her cheek, trying to assess the damage. All he could see was blood, and more blood. She smelled awful, he had to place the back of his hand over his mouth to keep himself from throwing up.

“What do you fucking think?” She coughed, spilling a little blood on him. He recoiled with disgust, but his daemon cooed, Astraeus tight on her careful grip, and Marcel returned to his task to break Dorothea free.

“I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

“Well, fuck you and your appreciation, Delamare.” She mumbled as he slowly tried to get her up, but her broken knee made it impossible. She winced from the pain, slapping his chest with no strength, leaving a bloody handprint on his pristine shirt. _Strike me, kill me,_ her mind seemed to linger on that thought a little longer. “I can’t do this. Leave me alone.”

“Shut up.” His voice was direct and forceful; he was clearly in a mood.

He picked her up in his arms, making sure not to directly hold her wounded knee. She complained, but didn’t scream, so he figured he was doing well.

Marcel was halfway down the corridor when Montillet appeared and began to follow him closely, too close, while he carried her away.

“You can’t do this! This woman knows something!”

Marcel scoffed, climbing a staircase with difficulty, Montillet breathing down his neck. Dorothea observed him from over Marcel’s but he seemed to be ashamed of looking into her eyes.

“Stop! Delamare, this is treason!”

Marcel did stop, turning around in the entrance hall of what looked like a police station, but filled with CCD insignias.

“Don’t talk to me about _treason_ , you buffoon. You are lucky this woman isn’t dead. She isn’t an English citizen, she is a fucking marchioness!”

“The embassy--”

“-- didn’t expect you to torture her or arrest her for over seven days, I assure you. They assumed she would be back within _hours,_ but she vanished for _seven_ days. Her uncle is a Duke, for God’s sake! What were you thinking?” He took a step towards Montillet. Dorothea wasn’t fully following the conversation, her mind dizzy, but she knew she had never heard Marcel sound so hostile. “Have you any idea of the damage this would do to relations between us and England? Of course you don’t,” He added when Montillet opened his mouth to say something. “you’re a _moron._ ”

Montillet was done being insulted, so he took a step forward as if to take Dorothea from Marcel, but his owl opened her wings menacingly, perched on his head, making a loud noise. Montillet hesitated; that was all Delamare needed, as he turned again, walking outside where his driver - a lieutenant from the Office of Right Duty - was waiting for him. He handed Dorothea to the man, Astraeus gently dropped in the car seat by the owl, before the man put Dorothea there, not gently, but not in a brute way either.

She thought she might have fainted, because when she came back to her senses, the car was on the move, Marcel holding her body against his, one of his hands resting on her chest, bloodied, the other keeping her head steady, fingers deep into her hair. All she could feel was his warmth.

“I am not here. This isn’t real.” She whimpered. His fingers moved gently against her scalp.

“Oh, this is very, very real.”

She fainted again.

***

The doctor was careful enough, lifting her chin, then slowly moving her head this way and that, checking her cheeks, her eyes, her jaw. Everything hurt, Dorothea felt, her skin bruised, her body sore and musky. Resting in Marcel’s comfortable and impeccable bed, she felt puny, miserable.

“How bad is it, doctor?” She asked in French, her lip swollen and torn around the corner, she still tasted the blood, despite having her face wiped clean.

She tried to sound as confident as she could, and that was a difficult task, that Astraeus encouraged her to perform well, from his place on her thigh. He looked less shimmery than usual, she noticed, but he seemed less frightened. The owl observed them, perched at the end of the bed, slightly sleepy.

The doctor was looking for something in his bag, then took a new set of bandages and cotton wool, alongside some bottle of chemical, that Dorothea guessed should have been an antiseptic. She took a deep breath, while the man adjusted his glasses on his face, before addressing her.

“Well, you’ve broken a couple of fingers on both your hands, but those are already patched, you should be good. You were unconscious when I did it, lucky you, that would have hurt like hell.” He leaned in, his goldfinch daemon chirping quietly while hovering over Astraeus, trying to comfort him, as her person tended to Dorothea’s eye. It hurt, a lot, and she couldn’t see anything on the eye he was tending. “Now, your eye, I believe it’s too swollen to make a judgement yet, but I’ll clean it up and bandage it, so you can let it heal without exposing it too much. I’ll come back in a week, and see the real damage here--”

“Did they poke my eye out?” She asked, by reflex, feeling anxious, but she was too exhausted to express too much concern.

“No, as far as I can tell, but it’s badly swollen. I can’t tell what kind of damage happened here, but it looks like your eye is still in there. Thank God.” He finished placing the bandages over her eye, carefully, to hurt her as little as possible. When he finished, she was wearing a white sort of eye patch, made of cotton. “You might want to prepare yourself for the possibility you might have lost your eyesight, though we won’t know for sure until you can actually open your eye.”

He finished examining her and tending to her wounds, and while he did that, Dorothea tried her best to ignore Marcel, who was watching everything from his balcony, where his bed faced. He had his arms crossed over his chest, a blank expression in his face that Dorothea neither cared for nor could read. His white shirt was a mess of blood. She shivered, the doctor noticed but didn’t say anything.

“Is the knee broken, doctor?” She asked again, after he finished bandaging her right knee in a thick bundle, that made it impossible for her to bend her knee.

“Not quite, my lady. It’s in poor shape, but not entirely. A month or so should do the trick.”

“I can’t stay here all that time! I have to go back to England!” She began to get up, which was of course painful and pretty much impossible to do on her own. The doctor gently pushed her back against the pillow, reassuring, but his eyes were very anxious too.

“The city is in lockdown, you’re not going anywhere until the chaos fades.” Marcel said, strict, as if she was a child throwing a tantrum. She stared at him, confused. What was he on about? He turned his glance to the doctor, his arms crossed over his chest. “What else will she need, doctor?”

The man clearly felt intimidated by Marcel, stuttering, while searching for two bottles of pills in his bag, that he left at the bedside table. He also picked up a small flask, containing a transparent liquid.

“I’m prescribing her some medication, for the swollen eye and for the open wounds and bruises, to disinfect them. And, if you’re in too much pain, this--” He showed the flask to Marcel, who nodded, then placed it beside the pill bottles. "-- should help you. Monsieur Delamare says you’re used to taking morphine, but sadly nothing was on your purse. This is similar, but stronger, and it needs to be injected.”

“I’ll do it.” Marcel said. “Anything else?”

“She is dehydrated and fatigued. Food and water will settle your anxiety for now, my lady, and in the following days you will feel better. You must be starving, but eat slowly, alright? Otherwise you’ll feel sick. Everything will be fine, I assure you. A good rest and good food should improve her mood a lot.” The doctor smiled at her, but then he glanced at Marcel, slightly gloomy. “There are a few things we should discuss in private before I go, monsieur.”

She watched them walk out of the room, into the living room of Marcel’s flat, with a sense of dread she was unfamiliar with. Astraeus pressed himself against her stomach, but she asked him, quietly, to move away. He did, and even though he understood her reasons, he was hurt by that.

Marcel came back into the room, twenty minutes later, and outside, Dorothea saw the sky turn deep, dark black. There were no stars. She was feeling less sleepy, though the pain was irritating. He handed her a plate with some hot soup in it, and placed a glass of water on the bedside table. He sat on the bed, by her feet, watching her as she blew the soup cold. She felt his heavy gaze, but tried not to engage it.

“What did he say?” She asked, looking at her plate.

Marcel took some time to say anything, but she could hear his breathing, clearly, well-paced, the tickle of her spoon against the plate. The world never seemed so loud like it did in that moment, Marcel’s heat against her, sickening, unwelcome for once.

“He said that while you may heal physically, there is concern about your mental state.” He watched her eat the soup with difficulty, first with her mended fingers who could not grip at the spoon appropriately, then with her swollen lips that hurt every time she opened her mouth. “What did he say to you, when I left to start on your dinner?”

She chuckled, her voice tickling her sore throat. She reached for the glass of water and clumsily brought it to her lips. She drooled slightly, but dropped mostly on herself and not on his bed.

“He asked me if you had done this to me.”

“What a ridiculous question.”

“His concern is well-placed. Bonneville used to leave me in similar states, though he never quite broke anything.” She finished her soup, then placed the plate on the bedside table as well, much to Marcel’s distaste, even though he didn’t say anything, but he did shift the stance on his legs. For a man so inclined to details and perfectionism, that must have hurt him. She rested against the pillow on her back. “You said the city is in lockdown? Why is that?”

“I told you in the car, MacPhail is dead. The CCD is in disarray, they had to bring in the Swiss Army to assist in keeping order.”

“MacPhail? But… Well, that’s… news, in a way, but that is absurd. With him dead, this… What about the CCD forces?”

“They are _in disarray_ , as I said. Right now, elections are being made, votes and more votes and more inner fighting, as no clear line of succession exists. It will be some time before someone takes the lead and until they do, you and I will have to stay here.”

“Why… Why am I here, Marcel?” She asked him, at last.

He looked at her, serious, quiet, his jaw tense. She shuddered.

“My sister is missing.”

“Well, that much I know.”

“Indeed. They thought you knew something about her whereabouts.”

“They were more interested in the girl, but yes, they assumed I knew something of Marisa.” She said. “Is it true? Has she gone rogue?”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to anyway. There was a soft crease between his eyebrows, she felt his fingers dig deep on the bed sheets.

“I need your help to find her.”

“I don’t know where she is. Last I heard she was on her way to Geneva with Boreal. A month ago or so. Maybe more.”

“So I’ve heard, but she never arrived here, to my knowledge.” Marcel said, somber. “She always called when she was in town, at the very least, yet nothing. Not a word from her.”

“She was with Boreal, maybe she just wanted privacy or he didn’t allow her to contact you, God knows he is weird.”

“It’s possible.” Marcel breathed out, heavily; Dorothea could see he seemed exhausted. “Something is missing here.”

“Certainly. What about the girl?” Marcel scoffed when he heard that and Dorothea shook her head. She felt dizzy from the pain and the medication and the wounds. Astraeus protested loudly for her. “This isn’t the time for you to be mad about it. What about Lyra? Do you know anything?”

“No. She’s not my problem nor my responsibility.”

“Neither is Marisa, yet here we are.”

“Marisa and I have the difficult problem of sharing a mother, who is incredibly unhinged about her favourite child having disappeared.” Marcel spat, angry. “I’m sure you can understand why I am looking for her.”

Dorothea rubbed her only available eye with the back of her hand, thinking slowly, painfully.

“Well, to help you I need my contacts, my friends, my money-- In this state I can barely eat the damn soup without drooling.” She tried flexing her fingers, but they were tightly patched in a way she couldn’t bend them to do anything, even less write letters in code. “Can you mail things out of the country? Without being searched, I mean?”

“Not now, but perhaps in a few days they’ll loosen up on the opening of letters. My _La Maison Juste_ seal should be enough to give you privacy then.” Marcel observed her. “Who are you gonna write to?”

“People.” Dorothea wasn’t feeling very cooperative and he took notice, and smiled. “No one you should concern yourself with. But I need them if I’m to help you, and you can’t spook them with your _Magisteriumness._ ”

“Very well. I’ll see what I can do for you in the morning.”

“I’d like to clean myself, if that is possible.”

“Certainly.”

He helped her up, mechanically, and supported her towards the bathroom, as she walked in one leg alone. There, he left her standing by the wall, as he filled the bathtub; the room was in warm shades of light green and yellow, an atmosphere almost shimmery, but she didn’t know what she expected. Everything there was impeccable, as it should be, as everything always was with Marcel.

After he was done setting up her bath, he turned to her, and looked her up and down with a bit of disgust that he concealed well. He picked up a towel from the cupboard nearby, and placed it on the sink, white and fluffy.

“I only have white towels,” he said, nonchalant.

“I’ll try not to bleed on them.”

He was about to leave when she finally took the courage to say his name.

“Marcel, I don’t think I can do this alone.” She said, gesturing at herself. He watched her, amused. “Could you help me, please?”

He made his way back to her, so slowly it was painful to watch, and she waited for him awkwardly, watching as he unbuttoned her blouse and helped her out of it, placing the dirty rags on the sink. Then he looked down, to examine her pants, ripped so her knee could be patched. He kneeled, examining the fabric, trying to think of ways to pull the pants down without removing the bandages.

“Open that drawer.” He commanded and she obeyed. “Give me the scissors.”

“Why?” She said, even though she had already reached for them and was handing them to Marcel.

“Because I want to stab you with them. Why, do you think? We’ll have to cut your pants off, it won’t come out otherwise.” He began, slowly, to cut her pants on the side, going up her thigh. The cold metal against her warm skin made her shiver. “If you wore skirts like a proper lady, it would be easy to remove them from you now.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing the curse word she meant for him. _Best not to insult the man with scissors,_ she thought.

“It would also be easier for them to rape me, but you didn’t consider that, did you?” He looked up, amused, slightly surprised.

“I see.” He finished cutting the whole side of the leg, the scissors making a soft noise, as they were very sharp. Marcel then unbuttoned the pants and helped her, with difficulty, out of it. He got up, far too close for Dorothea’s liking. “Have they?”

“No. They were too busy breaking my fingers.”

“Then I guess the trousers worked.” He laughed, quietly, but she didn’t. She didn’t feel like doing anything. He gestured at her bra, dirty and bloody too. “Do you need help with that?”

“I think so, please.” She turned around to face the wall, her arms bracing herself at the front of her torso. She felt the warmth of his hands on her back as he opened the bra for her, and she tried not to look too embarrassed. Marcel pressed himself against her, lightly, and she felt his hands on her hips, and his lips against her skin, kissing the back of her shoulder.

“Please, don’t.” She whispered, half a sob.

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, pulling away from her. She didn’t turn to face him.

“I just need some space right now, that is all.”

“You don’t have to cover yourself like that.” His hands rested on her elbows, but he didn’t try to move her. She recoiled in her place, shuddering at the sense of his presence. “No need to be so chaste. I’ve seen you naked dozens of times.”

“This is different.” It was all she managed to say, her voice faltering, her throat feeling coarse.

She heard the hum of his laughter, his chest against her back, his chin brushing against her neck as he leaned closer to whisper in her ear.

“It isn’t.” He pulled away. “Suit yourself, though.”

Before she could say anything, he helped her out of the rest of her underwear, much to her embarrassment. He put all the rags on the sink, and he took a step back. Dorothea could sense his gaze on her, amused and even scornful, as she faced the wall bracing herself, and her face was hot with dreadful embarrassment, her eyes watery with tears. Astraeus fluttered around her head to disclose their shame.

“I think I can get in on my own, thank you.” She managed to say.

“Are you certain?”

“Not really, no.”

He picked her up awkwardly and carried her to the bathtub, where her patched leg was kept hanging on the border so as to not wet the bandages. Marcel helped her untie her hair, all musky and tangled from being kept tied for days. She hated every moment of it, the way he watched her as if she was an animal he had never seen before, how his touch was so mundane but it felt so invasive.

_Maybe they broke me,_ she pondered deliriously. _Maybe I’m just too stubborn to let myself fall apart._

Marcel handed her the soap and the water was fairly hot, but it didn’t bother her. She appreciated the intense sensation, a welcome distraction from her pain and embarrassment and sadness. She was so aloof in her melancholia, she barely noticed Marcel kneeled beside her, his arms resting on the bathtub borders, his fingers faintly touching the water, watching her with immense curiosity. Like a boy observing a bird recently fallen from its nest, all broken against the concrete. Astraeus chirped, distressed.

“You’re enjoying this.” She mumbled, trying to gather the bubbles around her chest, but there weren’t enough yet.

“A little, yes.”

“You’re a sadist.”

“Maybe. But it’s not your wounded state that intrigues me.” He twitched his fingers, softly, and they touched the water, the tip of his index finger brushing, almost imperceptibly, against her skin.

Dorothea knew the medication and adrenaline were heightening her senses because she was aware of every movement he did, even the smallest ones. She felt something cold in her stomach, but Astraeus rested on her shoulder and told her to relax. _He means no harm,_ Astraeus thought to her. _That is debatable,_ she thought back.

“It’s your shame.” Marcel said, and he got up again, looking down on her, his bloodied shirt a sad reminder of the state of things - had he carried her himself? She couldn’t remember - his obnoxious attitude making her feel so small. “I can’t understand it.”

She sighed, holding back tears that were coming out involuntarily now.

“I am too vulnerable.” It was all she managed to say. He nodded.

“Indeed.”

He didn’t move, observing her, his daemon on his shoulder. She finally mustered some sass to speak to him in a tone he would recognise.

“Do you intend to watch me?” She raised her eyebrow, and he smirked.

“Depends. Do you intend to drown yourself the moment I walk away?”

She let out a sigh of understanding. So that was why he was so focused on her.

“I certainly don’t. I spent a week being tortured, I have no intention of dying now, I assure you.” While that was true, the hurt she felt made her feel like deep down, there was a hint of lie in that comment. She brushed away the thought as quickly as she could.

“Then I can leave you be.” Marcel said, but he didn’t move. His owl whispered something to him, and he shook his head. Dorothea wished she knew what they were thinking, and more importantly, what they were talking about. “The doctor said the pills could make you dizzy.”

Marcel didn’t ask her how she felt, but she knew he meant it. She realised he was struggling to properly attend to her needs, because that required the sort of intimacy they did not have. He wasn’t good at caring for people so intimately, he wasn’t used to saying or doing things that were mundane, at least not to her. They both lacked the comfort with the sort of intimacy the situation demanded and created; it changed their dynamic drastically and neither of them was adapting well. She almost laughed; the whole thing was ridiculous.

“I am a little dizzy, but I can keep my head up.” She mumbled, and Marcel didn’t really believe her, but he didn’t argue. “I’ll call you if I get worse, I promise.”

She watched him leave with relief. All she wanted was to be alone, and while she didn’t say that loudly, even Astraeus’s company was bothersome at that moment. The thought filled her with dread.

Getting clean improved her mood slightly, or at least made her feel less uncomfortable. She felt like she would faint twice, but it quickly passed, so she didn’t bother warning Marcel. Alone, and with a lot of effort, she managed to stand up on her own and dry herself, some blood staining the towel, though it wasn’t much.

Back in the bedroom, Marcel had changed the sheets and left a blanket and a dark shirt on the bed for her to wear. It barely covered her thighs, but she didn’t have many options.

“Your pants had to be thrown in the garbage, but I’ll take your shirt and underwear to wash tomorrow or the day after.” He said, while she was buttoning her shirt.

The sudden voice startled her, as he came from another room, but she tried to conceal her anxiety. Impatient with her clumsy broken fingers, he helped her finish the last buttons, much to her humiliation. He inspected the blood on the towel. “The smaller wounds seem to be healing fast. At any rate, I’ll try and contact Miss Bertrand in the morning, see if I can get you some borrowed clothes. I think you’re about the same size, she might have something. But I don’t expect she will be coming soon, not with the lockdown.”

“Don’t bother her on my behalf.”

“I couldn’t recover your morphine, but all your other things are back in your purse. Gun included.” He ignored her last remark, placing her torn purse on the bed. His arm brushed against hers, and she took a step away. He noticed, but didn’t acknowledge it. “Your… lady things as well. Good for you, there aren’t any shops open, and you might need them. I expect you have to take your pills regularly.”

“Only if you intend to have me.” She mocked him.

“You are in no shape for such a thing.” He said, methodically, almost bored. She hummed, amused.

“The fact you considered that is hilarious.”

“Isn’t that what always happens when we are alone?” She didn’t take insult with his tone, albeit she wasn’t in the mood to discuss any of that.

“It doesn’t have to happen, you know? You make it sound like sleeping with me is a chore.” She glanced at him, discreetly; he wasn’t looking at her, instead keeping busy, unbuttoning his shirt and putting it, carefully folded, on the chair. He was avoiding her eyes. “You don’t have to do it, if that is how you feel.”

“I don’t think now is a good time to discuss this.”

She didn’t say anything, instead watching her own movements as he made his way to the bathroom. She lied on the bed with difficulty, but managed to set herself comfortably enough.

Marcel spent quite some time in the bathroom, sunk in the water, his finger tapping the bathtub in a rhythm as his daemon watched him from the other hand. The whole flat was silent; he felt like he was alone, as usual.

“Do you think she might hurt herself?” He asked, in a whisper, raising his eyes to meet his daemon’s. That thought had crossed her mind.

“She has sturdier nerves than that.” A pause. “But one can never know for sure.”

He hummed, leaning against the tub, the water cold now. The truth was, he didn’t want to leave there, because it meant confronting Dorothea, but that woman in his room was a ghost of what Eilhart had been.

“You’re overthinking this.” His owl said. “We’ll help her and she will help us. Like it always has been.”

He closed his eyes.

“If only things were that simple.”

***

Marcel quietly left the bathroom, hoping Dorothea was asleep - and she had hoped that too - but unfortunately that was not the case. He changed into a simple shirt and trousers and sat beside her on the bed, a book in hand. The last time she had felt this mortified she was barely a woman.

She had to turn her whole head to see him, thanks to her bandaged eye; he paged lazily through his book, an uninteresting tale of economical quests that made Marcel look duller than he already was. He was uncomfortable with her presence there, she knew and felt, the way his body was tense beside her, his jaw terribly defined from the gritting of his teeth. This was his space, she realised, the only place where he could be himself, whoever that was, but her presence disturbed it, corrupted it. She was uncomfortable too, in pain, her watery eyes leaking tears and blood into the bandage; her swollen mouth feeling heavy and sore. Their daemons, on the other hand, were quite comfortable, chatting, close to each other.

She watched Marcel, and by now he had noticed it, it was hard not to after all; how handsome he was in his own sulking attitude, his frowns and expressions of distaste, small smiles, so few laughters it frustrated her. _Feel something,_ she would think, to herself which was pointless. Dorothea knew the price of prying, especially men like Marcel, and thus she never pushed too hard, afraid to break him; he would break, she knew, that was her final assessment of him, a couple of lines she wrote in his dossier, the one she never delivered out of fondness and fear and respect.

His lips twitched, just the corner, just enough to make Dorothea realise she had been staring for a while. She cleared her throat, looking away, but she could feel his gaze and thus she tried to move in the bed, uncomfortable and awkward. He didn’t laugh, didn’t move to help or to get in her way; he simply watched, and she looked at him again and saw nothing but a blank expression, though his eyes narrowed slightly, filled with expectations. Dorothea thought she couldn’t even call him cruel, because his apathy was so meticulous, so abundant and well spread through his being, that cruelty was far too much of an overstatement.

“Are you in pain?” He asked, two of his fingers into his book, bookmarking where he was last reading before she distracted him.

She shook her head, though that was a lie. She slid in the bed, careful not to move her bandaged leg too much, and turned her back on him, preparing to sleep.

His scent was everywhere in that house, which of course, was an obvious thing; the pillow, his shirt she was wearing, the curtains, the sheets, even the breeze. It was a warm evening, so he was just covering his legs with a thin sheet, while Dorothea had the blanket over her; she was shivering and cold sweat ran down her back. Her wet hair had dripped on the shirt, making it humid and uncomfortable. She was exhausted, her body heavy, but as soon she closed her eyes, a soft darkness that was tinted coral by the turned on lights, she felt as if she was back in the basement. Being punched was by far the less worse thing in all that situation, but when they shoved her head into a cold water tank, that truly made her afraid.

They were violent, reckless and stupid, and she broke the hand of one of them when she saw the opportunity, which was a dumb but satisfying thing to do. They were confused and disorganised, and she knew they were going to kill her after all that if not for Marcel; Montillet’s level of brutality could not escape the secrecy of the CCD cells, especially when she wasn’t a nobody. She had thought his bold move of capturing her had been a misjudgement on her part, a mistake made somewhere; after learning MacPhail had died though, she realised that her capture had happened just after that and that maybe the CCD was desperate for answers, anything.

She woke up from her nightmare, opening her eyes and being met with darkness; she moaned in distress, trying to be quiet. She couldn’t remember the dream, but the fear that it granted her was everywhere now. Her eyes adjusted, at last, to the darkness; Astraeus was nested on her neck, shivering, his little claws scratching ever so faintly at her skin, but it comforted her. His presence meant she was alive, and while painful and hurtful, that meant she still had a job to do: to find Lyra and make sure she was safe. Before that was done and solved, everything else was trivial.

Dorothea recoiled in her place, bringing the blanket closer, gritting her teeth. She could feel the sharp pain coming from, well, _everywhere._ Her knee was the worst part though, throbbing, forcing her fever to manifest stronger now. Outside she could see the stars and hear voices, soldier-like voices, shouting orders or exclaiming, but all in French and her misery made it difficult for her to make out what they were saying. She was dizzy, half awake and half delirious, and Astraeus nudged his head against her skin, encouraging her to sleep. She tried, but she couldn’t, memories surrounding her everywhere, darkness engulfing her; she wished she could bury her fingers into the pillow, but with her fingers broken and patched stiffly, she could barely move them to even wipe her own tears away.

The sobs came too loudly, she felt, trying to swallow them down. Behind her, there was a movement; she had felt it when she woke up, moaning, likely waking Marcel up as well and now there it was again, though this time he moved closer. Looming over her, she felt his elbow supporting his weight, his daemon came to perch close to her head, without touching her.

“Are you in pain?” He asked, his voice harsh; she realised he had been sleeping soundly before she had woken him up.

“No.” She said again, her voice muffled.

Marcel clicked his tongue, displeased. He was asking that because he wanted her to ask for the stronger morphine, but she didn’t want to, as it would kill the pain but also made her dizzy and more vulnerable than she already was. And the dreams… she didn’t want to be stuck in dreams…

Marcel slid his hand through her neck, startling Astraeus, who flew to the owl, offended by the sudden movement; he chirped at the man, irritated, but was sorely ignored. Marcel turned her body to face him, briskly, then he held her chin and moved her face this way and that way, examining her. He wiped her tears away with the back of his hand, then placed his finger on her neck, then on her forehead, checking her temperature.

“You’re burning up.” He stated, unsatisfied.

“Maybe it’s because I want you too badly.” She scoffed, trying to make him give up, but he was already turning away and getting up.

“Don’t make me slap you, you’re already too wounded.” She watched him make his way to his desk, where the medicine was; the moon was so bright it lit up the whole bedroom and turned his silhouette into a horror image she observed with dread, as he fixed the drug in the syringe. The night was hot and he had removed his shirt. “Can you turn your right thigh up?”

“Please, no.” She mumbled, as he made his way back to her. He kneeled beside the bed, the syringe in hand, and let out a heavy sigh.

“Turn your leg up, Dorothea.”

“No, please. It will knock me down, I’ll have nightmares…” She pleaded, even though she expected no mercy. He was patient, tolerant even, but once a line was crossed there was no forgiveness, no leniency, and she had just crossed the delicate line of his sleeping schedule.

“You’re in pain. This is pointless.” He said, grabbing her by her ass and pulling her closer; her knee stung by the sudden movement, she cried out in pain. She grabbed the blanket, keeping herself covered as much as she could. He dug his nails on her hand and hissed. “Eilhart, let it go. This is for your well-being.”

She begged and pleaded through tears and sobs, and while she resisted, he had the advantage of being intact while she was horribly wounded. He was careful enough to take the blanket from her, and she stopped struggling once his daemon subdued Astraeus under her, tightly pressing him against her. There was so much pain she barely felt the needle in her skin, his warm hand pressing her down to prevent her from struggling, but Dorothea didn’t have the strength to struggle.

Letting out a heavy moan, she could already feel the numbing feeling spread everywhere. _It really is potent stuff,_ she thought, feeling Astraeus relax under the owl’s grasp. She watched Marcel put the syringe on the bedside table with a soft noise, and she sobbed, as her senses were becoming dull. He brushed her hair away from her cheek and her neck as she was sweating, and he kissed her there, softly.

He whispered something in French in her ear, quietly, something she didn’t quite understand. Sleep had already taken her.


End file.
